* * * * *
Wearily passed the day at Dell-Delight. Thurston, as usual, sitting
reading or writing at his library table; Paul rambling uneasily about
the house, now taking up a book and attempting to read, now throwing it
down in disgust; sometimes almost irresistibly impelled to spring upon
his horse and gallop to Charlotte Hall, then restraining his strong
impulse lest something important should transpire at home during his
absence. So passed the day until the middle of the afternoon.
Paul was walking up and down the long piazza, indifferent for the first
time in his life to the loveliness of the soft April atmosphere, that
seemed to blend, raise and idealize the features of the landscape until
earth, water and sky were harmonized into celestial beauty. Paul was
growing very anxious for the reappearance of Miriam, or for some news of
her or her errand, yet dreading every moment an arrival of another sort.
"Where could the distracted girl be? Would her report be received and
acted upon by the magistrate? If so, what would be done? How would it
all end? Would Thurston sleep in his own house or in a prison that
night? When would Miriam return? Would she ever return, after having
assumed such a task as she had taken upon herself?"
These and other questions presented themselves every moment, as he
walked up and down the piazza, keeping an eye upon the distant road.
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