Yet, in the beautiful words of our native poet, "Oh would, oh would that thou wast here, For absence makes thee doubly dear; Ah! what is life while thou 'rt away?
'T is night without the orb of day!'" The poet referred to, it need hardly be said, was our young and promising friend G.H., as he sometimes modestly signed himself.

The letter, it is unnecessary to state, was voluminous,--for a woman can tell her love, or other matter of interest, over and over again in as many forms as another poet, not G.H., found for his grief in ringing the musical changes of "In Memoriam." The answers to Susan's letters were kind, but not very long.

They convinced her that it was a simple impossibility that Clement could come to Oxbow Village, on account of the great pressure of the work he had to keep him in the city, and the plans he must finish at any rate.

But at last the work was partially got rid of, and Clement was coming; yes, it was so nice, and, oh dear! should n't she be real happy to see him?
To Susan he appeared as a kind of divinity, almost too grand for human nature's daily food.

Yet, if the simple-hearted girl could have told herself the whole truth in plain words, she would have confessed to certain doubts which from time to time, and oftener of late, cast a shadow on her seemingly bright future.