sun of which was not to set without leaving on
my forehead the brand of Cain, by dusty lane
and green hedgerow, among the trees in the forest,
Harry kept by her side, driving me mad. He was
happy, very happy, for the occasion increased her
natural good-humour and good spirits, perhaps
her liking for her boyish lover. A fortnight of
daily, almost hourlv, intimacy in that idle holiday
time, had naturally brought them closer together,
and he, at once intoxicated by his passion and
the sweet influences surrounding him, was more
enamoured than ever. So he kept by her side,
nobody challenging his right to that position. I
see them now: he with his youthful, glowing face,
all admiration and enjoyment: she, in her light
dress and straw hat, her sweet eyes just raised
in answer to him and a smile on her lips. One
of the party jestingly called my attention to them
once as if that were needed.

We rambled about in the forest until noontide,
and for an hour longer, presently dining
in an open space where were some fallen trees
and a little spring. He sat at her feet, and
as much as possible engrossed her conversation.
Her brother joked him on it, and I joined in
the laugh. We were all very merry together,
and my conduct excited no suspicion. I talked
gaily, and observed her looking at me more than
once in quiet surprise. Fury and despair were
raging in my heart, yet I talked lightly and
merrily; and, when the brother proposed that we
should try our skill in shooting at an
extemporised target, I bore my part like a boy amongst
boys.

Tiring of this and of other sports, we rambled
hither and thither. Then, I feigned drowsiness,
and they left me, to come back in an hour or so,
bidding me take care of our dinner baskets. The
brother left his pistol; it was heavy, and he
tired of his plaything. When they had all gone
off among the bushes, I sat up, on a fallen tree,
and loaded the weapon. I declare before Heaven,
I had no thought then of the dreadful use
to which I was soon to put it; I had an inclination
to play with the idea of suicide.

It was fascinating, in my maddened morbid
state, to put the muzzle between my teeth, and
fancy what pulling the trigger would effect. I
imagined it in detail. A horrible crash and a
great darkness. I should be found on their
return, lying beside the log, dead. How shocked
they would be, how horrified! What would she
say? Would she be sorry? How little she or
any one in the world would suspect the cause of
it! I should carry my secret with me into the
next world; perhaps I should be at rest, and
people would pity me.

The thought grew upon me, so that I rose to
dissipate it: rose and strolled off among the
trees, with the accursed pistol in my pocket.
My hands behind me, my head bowed, my eyes
on the grass, I went, walking slowly, thinking
of her.

It might have been five minutes, it might
have been an hour, when I heard a girl's voice,
carolling merrily—- a voice and song I knew well.
A dizziness was in my ears, my heart throbbed
tumultuously and painfully. I raised my eyes
and saw her alone, coming towards me, down a
footpath into which I had wandered.

She had never looked prettier or kinder.
There was a rosy flush of health and exercise
upon her cheek, a sweet light of love in her
eyes, aud a glory of afternoon sunshine streaming
through the boughs upon her fair brown
hair. Something told me that the boy's ardour
had won, if not a reciprocation of his passion,
at least an unusually favourable hearing. I
turned, and we walked side by side. " Where
were the others?" I asked.

"Oh, coming, but a long way behind. She
had run away from them." And she laughed.

"Why?"

"They had teased her. She was glad to have
met me, as I would take her part."

"And Harry?" She blushed, and, returning
an evasive answer, stole a sidelong glance
behind. I looked behind, too. There was no one
visible.

"He loves you," I said. She blushed deeper
than before, and turned her face away, and we
walked on in silence for a few seconds. Then it
came, " I love you!" I said. " Do you know
what a man's love is?" And I poured forth a
flood of passionate, incoherent words, such as
cannot be recalled or written down, such as men
sometimes utter once in a lifetime.

She listened, amazed affrighted. There was
more than that in her face. As I seized her
hand and told her of my hopelessness and agony,
I saw, distinctly, in the girlish countenance, a
look of repugnance and aversion. She broke
from me, and attempted to run away. The next
moment, I stood with the discharged pistol in
my hand, a little smoke curling upwards from
its muzzle.

          *           *           *           *           *

What need to narrate how I fled from the
spot, the long red bars of sunset streaming
after me through the wood, like the fires of Hell?
How I longed for death, yet had not the courage
to slay myself? How I gave myself up to
justice for that murder, was tried, found guilty,
and condemned to death?

The Seventh Journey of
THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER,
A SERIES OF OCCASIONAL JOURNEYS,
BY CHARLES DICKENS,
Will appear Next Week.

Now ready, price 5s. 6d., bound in cloth,
THE SECOND VOLUME,
Including Nos. 27 to 50, and the Christmas Double
Number, of ALL THE YEAR ROUND.