One bright morning about the middle of January, Herbert announced his intention of going to Worcester with Anna, who, he said, wished to visit the Lunatic Asylum¹, and as a young physician of his acquaintance had just commenced practising there, it would be a good opportunity for them to go over the building. To this my aunt made no objection, merely proposing that Ada, too, should go. Afterwards I remembered the peculiar² look in Herbert’s eye, as he replied “Oh fie! mother, Ada’s nerves are not strong enough to endure it. She can go with me some other time.”

 

Accordingly, when breakfast was over, Anna went up to her room to make the necessary preparations for her ride, while I stood by and gave her whatever assistance she needed. I observed that every article which belonged to her was put in its proper place, but I gave it no further heed³, though I did wonder why she kissed me so often, turning back even after she had reached the door to bid me another good-bye. Slowly the day passed away and night came on, dark, cold, and stormy. Even now, as I write, I can recall to mind the gloom which pervaded⁴ my spirits, as I listened to the sound of the sleet⁵ and hail, which drove past the window, where I had watched so long for their return. Seven, eight, nine, ten, was rung from more than one church dome⁶, and then 150we gave them up, for the shrill⁷ whistle of the last train on which they would be likely to come, had long since sounded in our ears.

 

“They must have stayed somewhere; don’t you think so?” said my aunt, addressing her husband, who, manlike, was not in the least alarmed, but sat conning⁸ his evening paper, nearer asleep than awake.

 

“Of course they have,” said he, looking up at his wife’s

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