CHAPTER VI.

MATINAL.

Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shivered in my narrow frame.

_Tennyson_.


The next morning was brilliant and cool, the earth and heavens shining
after the rain of the past night. I was dressed long, long before
breakfast: it would be so tiresome to wait in my room till the bell
rang; yet if I went down-stairs, would it not look as if I wanted to see
Mr. Langenau again? I need not go to the library, of course, but I could
scarcely avoid being seen from the library if I went out. But why
suppose that he would be down again so early? It was very improbable,
and so, affectionately deceived, I put on a hat and walking-jacket and
stole down the stairs. I saw by the clock in the lower hall that it was
half an hour earlier than I had come down the morning before; at which I
was secretly chagrined, for now there was no danger, _alias_ hope, of
seeing Mr. Langenau.

But probably he had forgotten all about the foolish half-hour that had
given me so much to think about. I glanced into the library, which was
empty, and hurried out of the hall-door, secretly disappointed.