He who is taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering--and oh! with agony I thought of what I left.

I could not help it.

I thought of him now--in his room--watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would stay with him and be his.

I longed to be his; I panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare him the bitter pang of bereavement.

As yet my flight, I was sure, was undiscovered.