She would smile vacantly when her father smoothed her hair or kissed her cheek; but she never laughed, or sang and played, as in days gone by; she would recline for hours on the sofa in her room gazing vacantly in the air, and taking apparently no interest in anything about her.

She bent her head when she walked, complained of coldness about her temples, and kept her hand constantly upon her heart.
Doctors were at last consulted; they pronounced her physically well, and thought that time would restore her wonted animation; but month after month she grew more dull and silent, until her father feared she would become idiotic, and grew hopeless and unhappy about her.

For a week before the receipt of the note from Clarence, she had been particularly apathetic and indifferent, but it seemed to rouse her into life again.

She started up after reading it, and rushed wildly through the hall into her father's library.
"See here!" exclaimed she, grasping his arm--"see there--I knew it! I've felt day after day that it was coming to that! You separated us, and now he is dying--dying!" cried she.

"Read it--read it!" Her father took the note, and after perusing it laid it on the table, and said coldly, "Well--" "Well!" repeated she, with agitation--"Oh, father, it is not well! Father!" said she, hurriedly, "you bid me give him up--told me he was unworthy--pointed out to me fully and clearly why we could not marry: I was convinced we could not, for I knew you would never let it be.