Here was a new source of pleasure to our
heroine: Antonio was already on the wing for the
city, perhaps arrived--nay, might have seen her,
might even now be within a short distance of the
summer-house where she was sitting at the time,
and watching her movements. As this idea
suggested itself, Julia started, and unconsciously
arranging her hair, by bringing forward a neglected
curl, moved with trembling steps towards the
dwelling. At each turn of the walk our heroine threw
a timid eye around in quest of an unknown figure,
and more than once fancied she saw the face of the
god of music peering at her from the friendly covert
of her aunt's shrubbery--and twice she mistook the
light green of a neighbouring cornfield, waving in
the wind, for the coat of Antonio. Julia had so long
associated the idea of her hero with the image in
her bosom, that she had given it perfect identity;
but, on more mature reflection, she was convinced
of her error: he would come disguised, Anna had
told her, and had ordered his servants home; where
that home was, Julia was left in ignorance--but she
fervently hoped, not far removed from her beloved
aunt. The idea of a separation from this
affectionate relative, who had proved a mother to
her in her infancy, gave great pain to her best
feelings; and Julia again internally prayed that the
residence of Antonio might not be far distant.--
What the disguise of her lover would be, Julia could
not imagine--probably, that of a wandering harper:
but then she remembered that there were no
harpers in America, and the very singularity might
betray his secret.
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