"Then I hope," murmured I to myself, "you will graciously let alone my
letters for the future."
Alas! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly their
vision, blotting from sight the schoolroom, the garden, the bright
winter sun, as I remembered that never more would letters, such as she
had read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly river
on whose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops
had trickled to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leaving
my little hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth of
waters far away. The change was right, just, natural; not a word could
be said: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had almost worshipped my
Ganges, and I grieved that the grand tide should roll estranged,
should vanish like a false mirage. Though stoical, I was not quite a
stoic; drops streamed fast on my hands, on my desk: I wept one sultry
shower, heavy and brief.
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