He  sat  thus  for  more  than  an  hour,  in  abstraction  so  deep,
that  he  lost  all  consciousness  of  his  actual  position,  and  when
he  looked  up  and  pushed  back  the  heavy  locks  from  his  brow,
he  started  back  from  the  ghostly  company  that  surrounded
him.  The  marble  busts  standing  out  so  cold,  and  white,  and
ghastly  in  the  pale  lamp-light,  resembled  the  faces  of  the  dead,
and  never  had  the  shadows,  resting  in  the  folds  of  the  dark,
green  curtains  seemed  so  thick  and  gloomy.  With  a  cold,
faint  smile  at  his  involuntary  recoil,  he  gazed  round  the  whole
apartment,  taking  in  all  the  massy  volumes,  over  which  he
had  pored  so  many  long  hours,  then  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  he


RENA;  OR,  THE  SNOWBIRD.  259

drew  towards  him  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  began  to  write.
Sometimes  he  would  write  xapidly,  as  if  his  pen  was  burning
under  his  fingers,  then  he  would  throw  it  down  and  sink  into
a  long  fit  of  abstraction.  Letter  after  letter  was  thus  written,
sealed,  and  directed;  but  how  strange  were  the  superscrip-
tions of  some  of  them  !  one  to  his  son,  and  another  to  Debo-
rah Fay — he  must  have  forgotten  her  married  name.  There
were  many  others  devoted  to  business ;  and  the  clock  struck
the  midnight  hour  before  he  had  concluded.  Thick  drops  of
perspiration  stood  upon  his  forehead  when  he  rose  from  his
chair,  after  arranging  the  letters  in  a  conspicuous  manner
around  the  lamp.
