oblique rays of the setting sun sent a reddish gleam the leafy
branches of the old oaks. I seated on a bench beneath a tree on one
side of the path. As I drew near I recognized Ellen. I remained
rooted to the spot where I stood, not daring to move a step. She was
stooping forward with her head bent down, while with the end of her
parasol she traced lines upon the gravel. She had not seen me. I
turned back instantly, and retired without making any noise. When I
had gone a little distance, I left the path and struck into the
wood. Once there, I looked back cautiously. Ellen was still at the
same place and in the same attitude. Heaven knows what thoughts
passed through my brain! I longed to see her closer. What danger was
there? I was sure she would not know me again. I walked towards her
with the careless step of a casual passer-by, and in a few minutes
passed before her. When my shadow fell on the path, she looked up.
and our eyes met. My heart was beating fast. Her look was cold and
indifferent; but suddenly a strange light shot into her eyes, and
she made a quick movement, as if to rise. I saw no more, and went on
without turning round. Before I could get out of the park her
carriage drove past me, and I saw her once more as I had seen her
five years before in Central Park, pale, with distended eyes, and
her anxious looks fixed upon me. Why did I not bow to her? I cannot
say; my courage failed me. I saw the light die out of her eyes. I
almost fancied that I saw her heave a sigh of relief as she threw
herself back carelessly in the carriage; and she disappeared. I was
then thirty-six, and I am almost ashamed to relate the schoolboy's
trick of which I was guilty. I sent her the following lines: 'A
devoted friend, whom you obliged in former days, and who met you
yesterday in the park without your recognizing him, sends you his
remembrances.' I posted this letter a few minutes before getting
into the train which was to take me to New York; and, as I did so,