This day week we shall be in
Albany,--no more such scenes as this then.
(_Helen approaches the window, and puts her arm gently
around her sister_.)
_Helen_. No more!--It was a sad word you were saying, Annie.
_Annie_. How you startled me. Your hands are cold,--cold as icicles, and
trembling too. What ails you, Helen?
_Helen_. 'Tis nothing.--How often you and I have stood together thus,
looking down on that old bridge.--Summer and winter.--Do you remember
the cold snowy moonlights of old, when the sound of the distant bell had
hope in it? We shall stand together thus, no more.
_Annie_. Do not speak so sadly, Helen. I cannot think they will destroy
our home in mere wantonness. Was there not some one coming up the path
just now? Hark! there is news with that tone.
[_Exit_.
_Helen_. A little more, an hour perchance, and he will read my letter.
Why do I tremble thus? Is it because I have done wrong, that these dark
misgivings haunt me? No,--it is not remorse--'tis very like--yet remorse
it is not. Danger, there is none.
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