A time which would
not last, because it could not, any more than apple-blossoms and May
flowers, but which was sweet and fragrant past all describing while it
endured.
Some _kindly_ disposed person sent Surrey a city paper with an item
marked in such wise as to make him understand its unpleasant import
without the reading. "Come," he said, "we will have none of this; this
owl does not belong to our sunshine,"--and so destroyed and forgot it.
Others, however, saw that which he scorned to read. He had not been into
the city since he called at his father's house, and walked into the
reception room of his aunt, and been refused interview or speech at
either place. "Very well," he thought, "I will go from this painful
inhospitality and coldness to my Paradise"; and he went, and remained.
The only letter he wrote was to his old friend and favorite cousin, Tom
Russell,--who was away somewhere in the far South, and from whom he had
not heard for many a day,--and hoped that he, at least, would not
disappoint him; would not disappoint the hearty trust he had in his
breadth of nature and manly sensibility.
And so, with clouds doubtless in the sky, but which they did not
see,--the sun shone so bright for them; and some discords in the minor
keys which they did not heed,--the major music was so sweet and
intoxicating,--the brief, glad hours wore away, and the time for
parting, with hasty steps, had almost reached and faced them.
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