Of late I had seen very little of him. His devotional studies and habits seemed to draw him from the idle pursuits of myself and my uncle’s guests; and Aubrey was one peculiarly susceptible of neglect, and sore, to morbidity, at the semblance of unkindness; so that he required to be sought, and rarely troubled others with advances: that night, however, his greeting was unusually warm. “I was uneasy about you, Morton,” said he, drawing my arm in his; “you have not been seen since morning; and, oh! Morton, my uncle told me, with tears in his eyes, that you were going to leave us. Is it so?” “Had he tears in his eyes? Kind old man! And you, Aubrey, shall you, too, grieve for my departure?” “Can you ask it, Morton? But why will you leave us? Are we not all happy here, now? _Now_ that there is no longer any barrier or difference between us,--_now_ that I may look upon you, and listen to you, and love you, and _own_ that I love you? Why will you leave us now? And [continued Aubrey, as if fearful of giving me time to answer]--and every one praises you so here; and my uncle and all of us are so proud of you. Why should you desert our affections merely because they are not new? Why plunge into that hollow and cold world which all who have tried it picture in such fearful hues? Can you find anything there to repay you for the love you leave behind?” “My brother,” said I, mournfully, and in a tone which startled him,--it was so different from that which I usually assumed,--“my brother, hear before you reproach me. Let us sit down upon this bank, and I will suffer you to see more of my restless and secret heart than any hitherto have beheld.” We sat down upon a little mound: how well I remember the spot! I can see the tree which shadows it from my window at this moment. How many seasons have the sweet herb and the emerald grass been withered there and renewed! Ah, what is this revival of all things fresh and youthful in external Nature but a mockery of the wintry spot which lies perished and _irrenewable_ within!