It is no
pleasure to me to revisit scenes in which earlier days have been
passed. I detest the sentimental melancholy which steals over me;
the sense of the lapse of time, and the reflection that so many whom
I knew are dead. I would always, if possible, spend my holiday in
some new scene, fresh to me, and full of new interest. I slept but
little, and when the morning came, instead of carrying out my purpose
of wandering through the streets, I was so sick of the mood by which
I had been helplessly overcome, that I sat at a distance from the
window in the coffee-room, and read diligently last week's Bell's
Weekly Messenger. My reading, however, was nothing. I do not
suppose I comprehended the simplest paragraph. My thoughts were
away, and I watched the clock slowly turning towards the hour when
Ellen was to call. I foresaw that I should not be able to speak to
her at the inn. If I have anything particular to say to anybody, I
can always say it so much better out of doors. I dreaded the
confinement of the room, and the necessity for looking into her face.
Under the sky, and in motion, I should be more at liberty. At last
eleven struck from the church in the square, and five minutes
afterwards the waiter entered to announce Mrs.
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