Rosalie, who had seen his approach from afar, came down from the house to meet him. She looked smiling and happy, as she gave him both her hands. Her cheerful confidence raised his hopes. He greeted her fondly, and then drew her arm within his own. And as they walked slowly back to the house— “Well, Rosalie!” he said, “what about this confounded editorial of Mr. Bolling’s? It is not enough, it seems, that he should be a kill-joy in the house and by the fireside, but he must be a mar-plot abroad, and an evil genius to our business!” Rosalie laughed gaily. “Oh, it is nothing,” she said; “it was just one of Mr. Bothsides’ grand, broad, impartial manifestoes. It took our people, both friends and opponents, very much by surprise, perplexed them not a little, and finally made them laugh. No one, for an instant, could have attributed such a leader to you, even if they had not been advised of your absence and exclusive engagement elsewhere. Besides, in to-day’s paper the publisher explains that the article was from the pen of a transient contributor. Why do you still look so grave? It is not possible that poor, daft Billy has really alarmed you with his gossip. Psha! even innocents of Billy’s mental calibre could scarcely impute the sentiments of that foolish leader to you.” Grave! Well he might look grave; but not upon the subject of leading editorials, public sentiment, popular applause, or popular execration. He wondered now, how such trifles could have discomposed him. There _she_ was—the angel of his life—walking by his side, leaning on his arm, looking very smiling and happy, talking cheerily, laughing sweetly; but, oh! that face was so fair and wan—that pearly forehead so greatly developed, so polished from the tension of the skin—those large, shadowy eyes, so deeply luminous—those crimson flushes in the hollow cheek, so intense and fiery—that whole countenance, irradiated with such unearthly, supernal light! Why should he look grave? He answered her question in some trivial way—said he was not grave, or something to that effect, and put on a look and manner of ease and light-heartedness—strangers, alas! to his bosom, from this time forward many a day! He did not now express any anxiety, or care, or thought about her health! he did not even ask her how she was; for oh! such feelings had suddenly grown too deep, too real, too painful to be spoken. He did not support her steps with his usual tenderness and solicitude. A sort of fierce jealousy and antagonism to disease and death took possession of him—a sort of instinct that, by denying their existence, he might disable their might—a kind of feeling that, by disbelieving Rosalie’s weakness, and disallowing her yielding to disease, he might save her from the power of death.