One pleasant, soft morning, Mrs. Payne being too much engaged with some home duties, to accompany us on a shopping or visiting excursion, Cornelia and I concluded to take a long drive out of the town, that we might enjoy the refreshing spring air. The trees were just budding, and Nature was unfolding a light, tender green mantle of foliage. We took long breaths of the delicious air, and it seemed as if the heavy cloud, which hung around us all in town, was dispelled completely, under the genial influence of the youthful spring. Cornelia was brighter, and as we pointed out to each other striking bits of the landscape, or noticed the graceful branches of the trees, and the delicate hues of the blossoms, we chanted aloud, passages from the old English poets, who so particularly rejoiced in, and welcomed so melodiously, the “Coming of the longed-for May.” How vividly does my memory recal every word uttered during that drive. I remember quoting with gleeful spirit, a verse from Herrick, which is full of that bounding, flowing melody that is heard in wild wood and dell, Nature’s own music. “Rise and put on your foliage and be seen To come forth like the spring time fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair; Fear not the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you; Besides the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.” As the horses’ heads turned homeward Cornelia’s gayety faded away, and after a few moments of serious silence, she looked up and said, “My dear, own Enna, I am very much afraid we are about to have some heavy trouble to contend with.” “Why, Cornelia?” was my reply, for as this was the first time she had spoken to me of her presentiment of sorrow, I did not wish to add to it, by letting her know that I likewise had observed the cause for it. She told me that she could not tell why she anticipated this trouble; that she knew nothing certain, but she had, like myself, noticed a change in her father—something of moment she was sure must be resting heavily on his mind, for he had not had his usual spirits for some time. “At night,” said she, “when my dear mother is asleep, I hear him walking his dressing-room sometimes until day-dawn. Mother says he is not well, but I am very confident that it is not sickness of the body that affects him; it is, I fear, sickness of the mind; and yet how foolish, if it be pecuniary difficulties, to grieve so much about it and keep it from us.” “He knows, dear Cornelia,” I replied, “how unfit his family are to bear reverses of fortune. You alone are able to bear up against loss of means.” “That’s true,” she sighed, “God only knows what is coming, but I pray He may send strength when the dark hour of trial does burst upon us.”