me on the harp, and I sat listening in happiness almost unbearable.
Some guests were announced.
She went into another room to receive them, and I took up her book.
It was Guy Mannering, then lately published, and the first of Scott's novels I had ever seen.
I opened where her mark lay, and read merely with the feeling of continuing our mutual existence by passing my eyes over the same page where hers had been.
It was the description of the rocks on the sea-coast where the little Harry Bertram was lost.
I had never seen such places, and my mind was vividly stirred to imagine them.
The scene rose before me, very unlike reality, doubtless, but majestic and wild.
I was the little Harry Bertram, and had lost her,—all I had to lose,— and sought her vainly in long dark caves that had no end, plashing through the water; while the crags beetled above, threatening to fall and crush the poor child.
Absorbed in the painful vision, tears rolled down my cheeks.
Just then she entered with