The only thing I had to assure me that it was not all a dream, and that I had really seen her, was the little spray of mignonette, which I carried next my heart.
It was now July.
Sultry August came and passed; dull September followed suit; dreary October ensued, in the natural cycle of the seasons; foggy, suicidal November came; and yet, _she_ came not! I felt almost weary of waiting and looking out and longing, notwithstanding the inward assurance I had, and the fact of my whole nature being imbued with the belief that we should meet again.

We _must_ meet.

I knew _that_, I felt firmly convinced of it.
Thus the year wore on.

Weeks and months elapsed since our meeting in church, which I should never, never forget.
Dreary, dreary expectation! I lost interest regarding things in which I had formerly been interested.

The society of people which I had previously coveted became distasteful to me.
Lady Dasher, you may be sure, I never went nigh; _she_ would have altogether overwhelmed me.
As for that insufferable ass, Horner, he was always asking me whenever we met, which was much oftener than I cared about, with a provoking simper and his unmeaning, eye-glass stare and drawling voice--coupled with a tone of would-be-facetious irony--"Bai-ey Je-ove! I say, old fellah, seen those ladies in hawf-mawning yet, ah ?" Brute! I could have kicked him; and I wonder now that I didn't!.