"
Clarence clutched her hand tighter as she finished, so tight indeed, that
she gave a little scream of pain and looked frightened at him. "What is the
matter?" she inquired; "your hand is like ice, and you are paler than ever.
You haven't let that trifling dream affect you so? It is nothing."
"I am superstitious in regard to dreams," said Clarence, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead. "Go," he asked, faintly, "play me an air,
love,--something quick and lively to dispel this. I wish you had not told
me."
"But you begged me to," said she, pouting, as she took her seat at the
instrument.
"How ominous," muttered he,--"became covered with black spots; that is a
foreshadowing. How can I tell her," he thought. "It seems like wilfully
destroying my own happiness." And he sat struggling with himself to obtain
the necessary courage to fulfil the purpose of his visit, and became so
deeply engrossed with his own reflections as to scarcely even hear the
sound of the instrument.
"It is too bad," she cried, as she ceased playing: "here I have performed
some of your favourite airs, and that too without eliciting a word of
commendation. You are inexpressibly dull to-night; nothing seems to enliven
you. What is the matter?"
"Oh," rejoined he, abstractedly, "am I? I was not aware of it.
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