At that moment--recalled, perhaps, by a chance similarity in position,
gesture, or expression--came over him, like a sudden chill and darkness,
the memory of his last interview with Cornelia.
CHAPTER XVI.
PARTING AN ANCHOR.
Cornelia, upon her arrival in New York, had been met at the station by
an emissary of Aunt Margaret, and conducted to a country-seat some
distance up the river. Four or five young ladies were already assembled
there, and as many young gentlemen came up on afternoon trains, and
availed themselves of Aunt Margaret's hospitality, until business called
them to the city again the nest morning, except that on Saturdays they
brought an extra change or two of raiment, to tide them over the blessed
rest of Sunday.
"I've been so _ill_, my love--how sweet and fresh you _do_ look!
Give your auntie a kiss--there. _Oh_! you naughty girl, how jealous
all the girls will be of those _eyes_ of yours!--so ill--_such_
dreadful sick-headaches--oh, yes! I'm a _great_ sufferer, dear,
a great _sufferer_--but no one, hardly, knows it. I tell _you_, you
know, dear, because you are my own darling little Cornelia. Oh! those
sweet _eyes_! So ill--so _unable_, you know, to be _up_ and _doing_--to
be as I should wish to be--as I once _was_--as you are now,
you--splendid--creature--you! Now you _must_ let me speak my heart out
to you, dear; it's my nature to do it, and I _can't_ restrain,
it--foolish I know, but I always _was_ so foolish! oh dear! well--Ah!
there's the first bell already.
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