No reflection was to be allowed now: not one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward. Not one thought was to be given either to the past or to the future. The first was a page so heavenly sweet- so deadly sad- that to read one line of it would dissolve my courage and break down my energy. The last was an awful blank: something like the world when the deluge was gone by.

I skirted fields，and hedges，and lanes till after sunrise. I believe it was a 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.