lovely　summer　morning：　I　know　my　shoes；　which　I　had　put　on　when　I　left　the　house；　were　soon　wet　with　dew。　But　I　looked　neither　to　rising　sun；　nor　smiling　sky；　nor　wakening　nature。　He　who　is　taken　out　to　pass　through　a　fair　scene　to　the　scaffold；　thinks　not　of　the　flowers　that　smile　on　his　road；　but　of　the　block　and　axe…edge；　of　the　disseverment　of　bone　and　vein；　of　the　grave　gaping　at　the　end：　and　I　thought　of　drear　flight　and　homeless　wandering—and　oh！　with　agony　I　thought　of　what　I　left。　I　could　not　help　it。　I　thought　of　him　now—in　his　room—watching　the　sunrise；　hoping　I　should　soon　e　to　say　I　would　stay　with　him　and　be　his。　I　longed　to　be　his；　I　panted　to　return：　it　was　not　too　late；　I　could　yet　spare　him　the　bitter　pang　of　bereavement。　As　yet　my　flight；　I　was　sure；　was　undiscovered。　I　could　go　back　and　be　his　forter—his　pride；　his　redeemer　from　misery；　perhaps　from　ruin。　Oh；　that　fear　of　his　self…abandonment—far　worse　than　my　abandonment—how　it　goaded　me！　It　was　a　barbed　arrow…head　in　my　breast；　it　tore　me　when　I　tried　to　extract　it；　it　sickened　me　when　remembrance　thrust　it　farther　in。　Birds　began　singing　in　brake　and　copse：　birds　were　faithful　to　their　mates；　birds　were　emblems　of　love。　What　was　I？　In　the　midst　of　my　pain　of　heart　and　frantic　effort　of　principle；　I　abhorred　myself。　I　had　no　solace　from　self…　approbation：　none　even　from　self…respect。　I　had　injured—wounded—　left　my　master。　I　was　hateful　in　my　own　eyes。　Still　I　could　not　turn；　nor　retrace　one　step。　God　mus