O! I could whisper thee a tale,
That surely would thy pity move,
But what would idle words avail,
Unless the heart might speak its love?

To tell that tale my pen were weak,
My tongue its office, too, denies,
Then mark it on my varying cheek,
And read it in my languid eyes.
                          Anonymous.

After the expiration of a fortnight, Pownal could find no excuses to satisfy even himself with remaining longer at Judge Bernard’s. The visit had been, indeed, one of great enjoyment, and gladly would he have availed himself of the pressing invitation of his host to prolong it, could he have conjured up any reason for doing so. Lightly would he have esteemed and cheerfully welcomed another wound like that from which he was recovering, could the pleasure have been thus purchased. The truth is that within a few days he had been conscious of a feeling of which he had never before suspected himself, and it was this feeling that made him so reluctant to depart. And yet, when, in the silence of his chamber, and away from the blue eyes of Anne Bernard, he reflected upon his position, he was obliged to confess, with a sigh, that prudence required he should leave a society as dangerous as it was sweet. To be in the same house with her, to breathe the same air, to read the same books, to hear her voice was a luxury it was hard to forego, but in proportion to the difficulty was the necessity. Besides he could not avoid fancying that young Bernard, though not cold, was hardly as cordial as formerly, and that he would regard with satisfaction a separation from his sister. Nor had he reason to suppose that she looked upon him with feelings other than those which she entertained for any other acquaintance standing to her in the same relation as himself. Beyond the ordinary compliments and little attentions which the manners of the day permitted, nothing had passed between them, and though satisfied he was not an object of aversion, he knew as well that she had never betrayed any partiality for him. Meanwhile, his own feelings were becoming interested, beyond, perhaps, the power of control, the sooner, therefore, he weaned himself from the delightful fascination, the better for his peace of mind.

Thomas Pownal was comparatively a stranger in the neighborhood, only two or three months having elapsed since he had been sent by the mercantile firm of Bloodgood, Pownal, & Co., of New York, to take charge of a branch of their business at Hillsdale. Even in that short space of time, by his affable manners and attention to business he had won his way to the respect and esteem of the good people of the town, and was looked upon as one likely to succeed in the lottery of life. No one was more welcome, by reason of his amiable character, to those of his own age, while his steadiness recommended him to his elders. But his family was unknown, though he was supposed to be a distant relation of the second member of the firm, nor had he any visible means of subsistence except the very respectable salary, which, as a confidential clerk, he received from his employers, on whom his prospects of success depended. The chasm, therefore, betwixt the only daughter of the wealthy Mr. Bernard and himself, was wide wide enough to check even an overweening confidence. But such it was not in the nature of Pownal to feel. He was sensible of the full force of the difficulties he had to encounter; to his modesty they seemed insuperable, and he determined to drive from his heart a sentiment that, in his despondency, he blamed himself for allowing to find a place there.

It took him some days to form the resolution, and after it was formed, it was not easy to carry it into effect. More than once he had been on the point of returning thanks for the kindness he had received, and avowing his intention to depart, but it seemed as if the veriest trifle were sufficient to divert him from his purpose. If Mr. Bernard spoke of the satisfaction he derived from his company, if Mrs. Bernard declared she should miss him when he left; or if Anne’s radiant face looked thanks for his reading aloud, they were all so many solicitations to delay his departure. The treacherous heart readily listened to the seduction, however much the judgment might disapprove. But, as we have seen, a time had come when the voice of prudence could no longer be silenced, and, however unwillingly, must be obeyed. He, therefore, took occasion, one morning, at the breakfast table, to announce his intended departure.

“Had I been a son,” he said, in conclusion, “you could not have lavished more kindness upon me, and I shall never forget it.”

“What! what!” cried the Judge, “I am not sure that the shooting one’s self is a bailable offence, and I shall be obliged to examine the authorities, before I discharge you from custody, Master Thomas.”

“To think,” said Mrs. Bernard, “it does not seem a week since you came, and we have all been so happy. I declare, Mr. Pownal, I shall not know how to do without you.”

“The dearest friends must part but we shall always be glad to see you, Tom,” said William Bernard.

“I do not see the necessity for your going,” said the Judge. “Our house is large enough for all; your attacks at table are not yet very formidable; and I have not taught you whist perfectly. Would it not be better to substitute a curia vult avisare in place of a decision? But, Anne, have you nothing to say? Is this your gratitude for all Thomas’s martyrdoms of readings of I know not what unimaginable nonsense; and holdings of skeins of silk, more difficult to unwind than the labyrinth through which Ariadne’s thread conducted Theseus; and pickings up of whatever your feminine carelessness chose to drop on the carpet; and endurance of all the legions of annoyances with which young ladies delight to harass young gentlemen? Have you no backing for your mother and me? One word from you ought to be worth a thousand from us old folks.”

“Mr. Pownal owes me some gratitude, too, father,” said Anne, “for the patience and accomplishments I have taught him. But he surely knows how much pleasure his presence confers on all in this house. We shall miss him very much, shall we not, Beau?” addressing a little spaniel that, upon being spoken to, sat up on his hind legs to beg for breakfast.

“I have several times endeavored to say this before,” said Pownal, somewhat piqued, and feeling a strong desire to kick the innocent cur out of the room, “but have never been able to muster sufficient courage. And now, if my thanks appear cold, as I am afraid they do to Miss Bernard, I assure her it is not the fault of my heart, but of my tongue.”

“Hearts and tongues!” exclaimed the Judge. “The former belong to the ladies’ department; the latter to mine. Yet, I fancy I know something about hearts, too; and yours, Thomas, I am sure, is adequate security for your words.”

“You are very good, sir,” said Pownal, “and I can only wish that all participated in your undeserved partiality.”

Anne was vexed with herself for having spoken in so trifling a manner. The frigid politeness of her brother’s speech, too, had not escaped her notice. It seemed to her now, that she had been wantonly rude. She hastened, therefore, to repair the fault.

“Mr. Pownal mistakes,” she said, “if he thinks me unmindful of the pleasant hours his unfortunate accident procured us. And I am sure I should be a monster of ingratitude,” she added smiling, and relapsing, in spite of herself, into the very trifling she had condemned, “if I did not remember, with lively emotions, his skill at holding silk and yarn.”

“Well, whenever you want a reel, send for me,” said Pownal, “and I shall only be too happy to come.”

“Take care, my good fellow,” said the Judge, “she does not wind you up, too.”

“I should be too happy ” began Pownal.

“For shame, father,” cried Anne, laughing, and rising from the table. “The young men have quite spoiled you, of late. Good-bye; you have finished your last cup of coffee, and have no longer need of me.” So saying, she hastened out of the room.

It was with mutual regret that the parting took place, and not without many promises required of the young man that he would frequently visit the family. His landlady, Mrs. Brown, was, as usual, all smiles, and welcomes, and congratulations on his return; notwithstanding which, it was with a sense of loneliness, amounting almost to desolation, that her lodger found himself installed again in his apartments. It seemed like passing out of the golden sunshine into a gloomy cavern. Was it possible that two short weeks could have produced so great a change in him? When he thought upon the cause, the conscious blush revealed its nature. “No,” said he, aloud, as he paced backwards and forwards in the room, “this is folly and madness. For me, a humble clerk, to connect myself, even in imagination, with her! What have I to offer her? Or what even in prospect? I have been sailing in the clouds, and my tattered balloon is precipitated to the earth I have been dreaming. How delicious was the dream! But I am now awake, and will never expose myself to the mortification of . I have been foolish. No, not so; for, who could come within the range of such fascinations, and not be charmed? But what, after all, are they to me? I will resist this weakness, and learn to regard her as only any other valued acquaintance; for, alas! she can never be more.”

In such incoherent expressions, poor Pownal gave vent to the emotions that agitated him. It would have been some consolation, could he have known what was said at the Bernards’, when the family gathered around the table in the evening. Mrs. Bernard alluded more than once to the gap his absence made in their little circle; and the Judge, in his jesting way, wished that somebody would shoot him again, if it might be the means to bring him back. Even Anne expressed regret at his loss, since his company had been such a pleasure to her parents.