The heart of youth is light. I liked William. I was sorry for him, but I did not let my remembrance of him press on me too sadly. Had I wished it, it would scarcely have been in my power to be unhappy, when I saw and felt that he who was dearest to me of God's creatures, now loved me as blindly and as devotedly as ever I had loved him. CHAPTER IX. At the end of a fortnight, Kate spoke of returning to our old home in the Grove, which had been vacant for some time. She resolved to go first with Jane and set all to rights, and to leave Cornelius and me to the care of a deaf and half-blind old dame. It was no use, she said, to bring us in the mess. When all was ready, she would write to us; and, as the furniture was not particularly valuable, we could just lock up Rock Cottage, and thus the labours of Cornelius need not be interrupted. He was then working hard at his Young Girl Reading, and entered quite into the spirit of this arrangement. When Kate had been gone above ten days, she wrote to say we might leave whenever we pleased. I felt delighted, but noticed, with concern, that the prospect of our return affected Cornelius very differently. For several days he looked pale and unwell, yet there appeared about him no sign of physical ailment. He seemed in a strange state of restlessness and fever, and wandered about the house like an uneasy spirit. Two or three times he took long lonely walks, from which he came in so worn and languid-looking, that I once asked uneasily: "What ails you, Cornelius?" "Nothing. How flushed you look. Is anything the matter with you?" "I have been stooping packing up--that is all." I returned to the task. He moved away, then came back several times, as if to address me, but never spoke. At tea time, I noticed, with concern, that he touched nothing. I said I was sure he was ill. He denied it; but when our aged servant bad removed the tray, he came and sat by me, made me put by my work, and, taking my two hands in his, began looking at my face with a strange troubled gaze--like one who beholds things in a dream--far and dim. "What is it?" I asked, a little uneasily. "How pale you look!" was his only reply. "I feel tired. Sewing there after tea, my eyes seemed to close involuntarily." "They are closing now. You need sleep, poor child. Go up to your room." "Have you nothing to say to me?" "It will do to-morrow. Go! a long night's rest will do you so much good. Sleep well and long."