that overhang the water at the foot of the track
down the cliff. It was shockingly bruised and
disfigured, so much so as to be hardly
recognisable; but for his clothing, and the name on
his linen, I doubt whether anybody could have
identified him except myself. There was, however,
no suspicion of foul play; the signs of
rough usage might all have been caused by the
body having been driven about amongst the
stones that encumber the bed of the river a
long way below the fall.

When I speak of the fall, I speak of the
Ashenfall, by Ashendell village, within an hour's
drive of this house. This, Gentlemen, is for the
information of strangers.

He had been seen by many persons about
the village during the day; I myself had seen
him go up the hill past the parsonage towards
the church: which I rather wondered at,
considering who was buried there, and how, and
why. I will even confess that I watched him;
and he went—as I expected he would, since he
had the heart to go near the place at all—round
to the back of the church where Honor Livingston's
grave is; and there he stayed, sitting by
himself on the low wall for an hour or more.
Sometimes, he turned to look across the valley
—many a time and oft I had seen him there
before, with Honor beside him, watching, while
he sketched the beautiful landscape—and
sometimes he had his back to it, and his head down,
as if he were watching her grave. Not that there
is anything pleasant or comforting to read there,
as on the graves of good Christian people who
have died in their beds; for, being a suicide,
when they buried her on the north side of the
church it was at dusk, and without any service,
and, of course, no stone was allowed to be put
up over it. Our clergyman has talked of having
the mound levelled and turfed over, and I
wish he would; it always hurts me when
I go up to Sunday service, to see that ragged
grave lying in the shadow of the wall, for I
remember the pretty little lass ever since she
could run alone; and though she was passionate,
her heart was as good as gold. She had been
religiously brought up, and I am quite sure in
my own mind, let the coroner's inquest have
said what it would, that she was out of herself,
and Bedlam-mad when she did it.

The verdict on him was "accidental death,"
and he had a regular funeral—priest, bell, clerk,
and sexton, complete; and there he lies, only a
stone's throw from Honor, with a ton or two of
granite over him, and an inscription, setting
forth what a great man he was in his day, and
what mighty engineering works he did at home
and abroad, and how he sleeps now in the hope
of a joyful resurrection with the just made
perfect. These present strangers can read it
for themselves; many strangers go up to look
at it. His grave is as famous as the Ashenfall
itself, and I have known folks come away with
tears in their eyes after reading the flourishing
inscription: believing it all like gospel, and
saying how sad that so distinguished a man
should have been cut off in the prime of his
days. But I don't believe it. He was never
any more than plain James Lawrence to me—
a young fellow who, as a lad, had paddled bare-
legged over the stones of the river as a guide
across for visitors; who had been taken a fancy
to by one of them, and decently educated;
who had made the most of his luck, and done
a clever thing or two in engineering; who
had come back amongst us in all his glory, to
dazzle most people's eyes, and break little Honor
Livingston's heart. The one good thing I know
of him was, that he pensioned his poor old
mother; but he did not often come near her,
and never after Honor Livingston was dead—
no, not even in her last illness. It was a marvel
to everybody what brought him over here, when
we saw him the day before he was found dead;
but it was his fate, and he couldn't keep
away. That is my view of it. About his death,
and the manner of it, all Lanrean had its
speculation, and said its say; but I held my
peace. I had my opinion, however, and I keep
it. I have never seen reason to change it;
but, on the contrary, I can show you evidence
to establish it. I do not believe he either threw
himself over the cliff, or fell over, or was pushed
over; no, I believe he was drawn over—drawn
over by something below. When you have heard
the notes he made in a little book that was found
amongst his things after he was dead, you will
know what I mean. His cousin gave that book
to me, knowing I am curious after odd stories
of the neighbourhood; and what I am going to
read, is written in his hand. I know his hand
well, and certify to it.

PASSAGES FROM JAMES LAWRENCE'S JOURNAL. London, August 11,1829.

Honor Livingston has kept her word with
me. I saw her last night as plainly as I now
see this pen I am writing with, and the
ink-bottle I have just dipped it into. I saw her
standing betwixt the two lights, looking at me,
exactly as she looked the last time I saw her
alive. I was neither asleep, nor dreaming-awake.
I had only drunk a couple of glasses of wine at
dinner, and was as much my own man as ever I
was in my life. It is all nonsense to talk about
fancy and optical delusions, in this case; I
saw her with my eyes as distinctly as I ever
saw her alive in the body. The hall clock
had just struck eight, and it was growing dusk:
exactly the time of evening, as I well remember,
when she came creeping round by the cottage
wall, and saw me through the open window,
gathering up my books and making ready to go
away from Ashendell. She was the last thought
to have come into my mind at that moment,
for I was just on the point of lighting my
cigar and going out for a stroll, before
turning in at the Daltons to chat with Anne.
All at once, there she was, Honor herself! I
could have sworn it, had I not seen them put
her underground just a twelvemonth ago. I
could not take my eyes off her; and there she
stood, as nearly as I can tell, a minute—but it
may have been an hour—and then the place