FAITH AND LOVE. 95 



" Pardon me, Ernest, but I shall remain here the morrow." 



I was annoyed, and endeavored to deter him from his pur- 

 pose; I hinted his depression as an urgent reason why he 

 should resume his social intercourse ; that nature became 

 oppressive in our moments of despondency, that she forced 

 upon us at such times the urgencies of the heart, and we need 

 the conventionalism, and cold turmoil of restless humanity 

 to recall us from egotism. Suddenly it flashed upon my mind 

 — " the morrow is the twelfth of August ;" and I was silent. 



Every one is aware of the extreme dullness of a country Inn. 

 The poverty of furniture, books, and all the little necessaries 

 of refined life. Then there is the dry dust upon the window- 

 pane ; the invariable slit at the corner of the dimity curtain, 

 showing that listless travellers, again and again, have lifted it 

 like yourself; the revolting soap-stains upon the pine stand, 

 and about the table, all reminding you of prior use, which 

 naturally is suggestive of unpleasant associations. Then time, 

 after his hurry elsewhere, seems resting here ; and the great 

 bottle-flies that buzz slowly about the room and then bounce 

 two or three times against the ceiling, seem created as 

 express reminders of heat, and lassitude, and lingering time. 

 To these annoyances are often superadded a barrenness of 

 situation ; as if nothing but flies, poultry, and swine half buried 

 in the moist gravel, could find anything pleasurable in it. 



That was a long wearisome day in the little Inn at . 



Despite all my efforts to the contrary, I found myself nervously 



