It may well be conceived that Rolfe's present frame of mind was but ill suited to the study of the law; moreover, he was too restless and impatient to serve that regular apprenticeship through which all must pass who come forward relying for success solely on their own resources; which consists in unceasing attention and apparent devotion to business, when one has nothing to do; which implies incessant labour, without present benefit, for future and contingent good. Time rolled on, and Rolfe became still poorer; unsuccessful in his profession, and apparently slighted by her he loved, he became gloomy and unhappy. The glow of early life was fast departing; his feelings were withering under the blight of mortification, and the world for him had no joys. To alleviate his sufferings, he courted dissipation, and neglected his studies; became reserved in his manner towards his friends, and consequently conceived them cold and unfeeling; when, being alone in the world, he resolved to leave the scene of his unhappiness, and seek a home in the western wilds. This resolution was scarcely taken, before he communicated it to many of his companions. They laughed at it as the whim of a man in love, yet he was fixed in his determination, and a few days sufficing to make his little preparations, he set off, having been absent for several weeks, to gaze for the last time, on her he loved. Slowly, and with a full heart, he moved forward, and approaching the house of her father, discovered her in the porch, nursing her flowers, and twining into wreaths the woodbine, which, full blown, hung clustering in rich luxuriance above her. The last rays of the setting sun yet lingered on her form, which was partly concealed by the sweet foliage which surrounded her; and Rolfe thought he had never seen her so beautiful. Then there passed over his mind the reflection that the hues of the dolphin are brightest when it dies, and he added, “she too is loveliest when I leave her;” and, moving on, he was soon at her side. Upon discovering him, she turned, and with great gentleness, though in a slightly upbraiding tone, said, “Oh, Richard! why so long absent? You know not how much I have missed you.” “A thousand thanks for those kind words,” said Rolfe, pressing her hand affectionately, “tell me truly, have you wished to see me?” “Certainly,” said she, “for I have been lonely and wanted some body to talk with me.” “Somebody,” repeated Rolfe, “then you cared not who?” “No; we have had company enough, and, could numbers interest, I should never be lonely; but it is not every one whose conversation pleases.” “Come, dearest,” said Rolfe, “you are grave this evening; why so?” “No,” replied she, “I am not, and if you think so, it is your long absence which has caused it.”