* * * * *
One o'clock had arrived; fifteen minutes after, I strolled into the
garden, and began to look over the little garden-gate in expectation of
every moment descrying Agnes in the distance. Half an hour passed, and
for ten minutes more I was tolerably quiet. From this time till half-
past two I became constantly more agitated--_agitated,_ perhaps,
is too strong a word--but I was restless and anxious beyond what I
should have chosen to acknowledge. Still I kept arguing, What is half
an hour? what is an hour? A thousand things might have occurred to
cause that delay, without needing to suppose any accident; or, if an
accident, why not a very trifling one? She may have slightly hurt her
foot--she may have slightly sprained her ankle. 'Oh, doubtless,' I
exclaimed to myself, 'it will be a mere trifle, or perhaps nothing at
all.' But I remember that, even whilst I was saying this, I took my hat
and walked with nervous haste into the little quiet lane upon which our
garden-gate opened. The lane led by a few turnings, and after a course
of about five hundred yards, into a broad high-road, which even at that
day had begun to assume the character of a street, and allowed an
unobstructed range of view in the direction of the city for at least a
mile.
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