The preparations for Rosalia’s departure for Maryland went on rapidly. A letter had been received from Emily Buncombe, in reply to the one written by Hagar, in which she expressed the great degree of pleasure with which she should expect the arrival of her dear adopted daughter Rosalia. Rose had wept over the letter—there was none of the pleasure expressed in her countenance, that might naturally have been expected. Raymond observed it, but _he_ appeared fully occupied with the winding up of his business, and with making arrangements for a visit to Washington, to receive his credentials previous to his departure on his foreign mission. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, that Raymond Withers should propose to take his young ward and cousin under his escort for the journey, and to see her safe in the house of her future mother-in-law—so perfectly natural and proper, that Hagar could find no word to say in objection—and Rosalia—but when did Rose ever object to any course proposed for her by another? She went on sorrowfully with her quiet preparations, and in a few days these were completed. The day of their departure drew near, and Hagar sank deeper into despair, that sometimes broke out into expressions of wildest anguish. Raymond wore a dark cloud of gloomy abstraction, of morose determination, from which the lightnings of a sudden anger would sometimes flash, when he would be exasperated by the wild and passionate grief and resistance of Hagar—sudden outbreaks of phrensied opposition to the overwhelming destiny coming on, slowly coming on, surely coming on—she felt it. “It is unreasonable, Hagar, this wild grief at the thoughts of an absence of but two weeks, Hagar, only two weeks. I shall be back again in even _less_ time, probably, and remain with you a month before my final departure.” “Ah! ah!” “Do you not believe me, then?” “Yes, I believe you! I believe you! but—” “But, _what_?” “I cannot! cannot shake off this avalanche of cold horror from my soul—it seems like direst doom bearing me down and down to perdition; it seems as though the end of all things were at hand.” “Hagar, it is your health, morbid nerves—you will get over this in a few days, after I am gone.” “After you are gone—yes, after you are gone, when all is silent for want of your voice, when all is dark for want of your glance, when my whole soul will starve for your presence—but you will no longer see my paleness, hear my moaning, or be troubled with my heart’s sorrow!” she would exclaim wildly and bitterly. “No more of this! you SHALL NOT excite yourself thus in my presence. I WILL NOT have it, you selfish and absurd woman! bah! why do you compel me to speak to you in this manner? be easy, love! go play with the babies, sing a song, take a ride, practise a piece of music, swallow an opiate, read a novel—do anything, rather than cling about and around me so tightly, that I shall have to hurt you in shaking you off. Go! go lie down, read a play.”