And had he really kept these withered flowers for her sake? How did her
soul flow up into her eyes, to descend upon those faded blossoms in
floods of tears, as sadly she pressed them to her lips and heart!
Then came the dreadful thought--He whom you thus passionately love is a
murderer, the murderer of his father! The hand that penned those tender
lines has been stained with blood. Shuddering, she let the flowers fall
from her grasp. She turned, and met the mild beautiful eyes of his
mother. The lifeless picture seemed to reproach her for daring for a
moment to entertain such unworthy suspicions of her child, and she
murmured for the hundredth time, since she first heard the tale of
horror, "No, no, I cannot believe him guilty."
She undressed and went to bed. The bed in which he had so lately slept,
in which he had passed so many wakeful hours in thinking of her; in
forming bright schemes of future happiness, and triumphing in idea over
the seeming impossibilities of his untoward destiny. His spirit
appeared to hover around her, and in dreams she once more wandered with
him through forest paths, eloquent with the song of birds, and bright
with spring and sunshine.
Oh, love! how strong is thy faith! How confiding thy trust. The world in
vain frowns upon the object of thy devotion. Calumny may blacken, and
circumstances condemn, but thou, in thy blind simplicity, still
clingest, through storm and shine, to the imaginary perfections of thy
idol.
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