CHAPTER VI.
MATINAL.
Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shivered in my narrow frame.
_Tennyson_.
The next morning was brilliant and cool, the earth and heavens shining after the rain of the past night.

I was dressed long, long before breakfast: it would be so tiresome to wait in my room till the bell rang; yet if I went down-stairs, would it not look as if I wanted to see Mr.Langenau again?
I need not go to the library, of course, but I could scarcely avoid being seen from the library if I went out.

But why suppose that he would be down again so early?
It was very improbable, and so, affectionately deceived, I put on a hat and walking-jacket and stole down the stairs.

I saw by the clock in the lower hall that it was half an hour earlier than I had come down the morning before; at which I was secretly chagrined, for now there was no danger, _alias_ hope, of seeing Mr.Langenau.
But probably he had forgotten all about the foolish half-hour that had given me so much to think about.

I glanced into the library, which was empty, and hurried out of the hall-door, secretly disappointed.
I took the path that led over the hill to the river.