Instantly, a barrier seemed to rise up between Julia Clifford ind myself. She had her consciousness, evidently, no less than I. What was THAT consciousness? Ah! could I have guessed THAT, there would have been no barrier--all might have been peace again. But a destiny was at work which forbade it all; and we strove ignorantly with one another and against ourselves. There was a barrier between us, which our mutual blindness of heart made daily thicker, and higher, and less liable to overthrow. A coldness overspread my manner. I made it a sort of shelter. The guise of indifference is one of the most convenient for hiding other and darker feelings. Already we ceased to ramble by river and through wood. Already the pencil was discarded. We could no longer enjoy the things which so lately made us happy, because we no longer entertained the same confidence in one another. Without this confidence there is no communion sweet. And all this had been the work of that letter. The name of William Edgarton had done it all--his name and threatened visit! But--and I read, the letter again and again--it would be some time before he might be expected. The route, as laid down for him by his father, was a protracted one. “Through Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, then homeward, by way of Alabama.” “He can not be here in less than six weeks. He must travel slowly. He must make frequent rests.” And there was a further thought--a hope--which, though it filled my mind, I did not venture to express in words. “He may perish on his route: if he be so feeble, it is by no means improbable!” At all events, I had six weeks' respite--perhaps more. Such was my small consolation then. But even this was false. In less than a week from that time, William Edgerton stood at the door of our cottage! Instead of going into Tennessee, he had shot straight forward, through Georgia, into Alabama.