journey, too, would be shorter and less fatiguing;
the air more invigorating."

"No doubt that would be better," said Mrs.
Poyntz, dryly; "but so far as your objections to
visiting Lady Haughton have been stated, they
are groundless. Her house will not be melancholy;
she will have other guests, and Lilian
will find companions young like herself—young
ladies and young gentlemen too!"

There was something ominous, something
compassionate, in the look which Mrs. Poyntz cast
upon me, in concluding her speech, which in itself
was calculated to rouse the fears of a lover.
Lilian away from me, in the house of a worldly
fine lady—such as I judged Lady Haughton to
be—surrounded by young gentlemen, as well as
young ladies, by admirers, no doubt, of a higher
rank and more brilliant fashion than she had yet
known! I closed my eyes, and with strong effort
suppressed a groan.

"My dear Anne, let me satisfy myself that
Dr. Fenwick really does consent to this journey.
He will say to me what he may not to you.
Pardon me, then, if I take him aside for a few
minutes. Let me find you here again under this
cedar-tree."

Placing her arm in mine, and without waiting
for Mrs. Ashleigh's answer, Mrs. Poyntz drew
me into the more sequestered walk that belted
the lawn; and, when we were out of Mrs.
Ashleigh's sight and hearing, said:

"From what you have now seen of Lilian
Ashleigh, do you still desire to gain her as your
wife?"

"Still? Oh! with an intensity proportioned to
the fear with which I now dread that she is about
to pass away from my eyes—from my life!"

"Does your judgment confirm the choice of
your heart? Reflect before you answer."

"Such selfish judgment as I had before I
knew her would not confirm, but oppose it.
The nobler judgment that now expands all my
reasonings, approves and seconds my heart.
No, no; do not smile so sarcastically. This is
not the voice of a blind and egotistical passion.
Let me explain myself if I can. I concede
to you that Lilian's character is undeveloped.
I concede to you that, amidst the childlike
freshness and innocence of her nature, there is
at times a strangeness, a mystery, which I have
not yet traced to its cause. But I am certain
that the intellect is organically as sound as the
heart, and that intellect and heart will
ultimately—if under happy auspices—blend in that
felicitous union which constitutes the perfection
of woman. But it is because she does,
and may for years, may perhaps always, need
a more devoted, thoughtful care than natures
less tremulously sensitive, that my judgment
sanctions my choice; for whatever is best for
her is best for me. And who would watch over
her as I should?"

"You have never yet spoken to Lilian as
lovers speak?"

"Oh no, indeed."

"And, nevertheless, you believe that your
affection would not be unreturned?"

"I thought so once—I doubt now—yet, in
doubting, hope. But why do you alarm me
with these questions? You, too, forebode that
in this visit I may lose her for ever?"

"If you fear that, tell her so, and perhaps
her answer may dispel your fear."

"What now, already, when she has scarcely
known me a month! Might I not risk all if too
premature?"

"There is no almanack for love. With many
women love is born the moment they know they
are beloved. All wisdom tells us that a moment
once gone is irrevocable. Were I in your place,
I should feel that I approached a moment that
I must not lose. I have said enough; now I
shall rejoin Mrs. Ashleigh."

"Stay—tell me first what Lady Hanghton's
letter really contained to prompt the advice
with which you so transport, and yet so daunt,
me when you proffer it."

"Not now—later, perhaps—not now. If you
wish to see Lilian alone, she is by the old
Monks' Well; I saw her seated there as I passed
that way to the house."

"One word more—only one. Answer this
question frankly, for it is one of honour. Do
you still believe now that my suit to her daughter
would not be disapproved of by Mrs. Ashleigh?"

"At this moment, I am sure it would not; a
week hence I might not give you the same
answer."

So she passed on, with her quick but
measured tread, back through the shady walk, on to
the open lawn, till the last glimpse of her pale
grey robe disappeared under the boughs of the
cedar-tree. Then, with a start, I broke the
irresolute, tremulous suspense in which I had
vainly endeavoured to analyse my own mind,
solve my own doubts, concentrate my own will,
and went the opposite way, skirting the circle
of that haunted ground; as now, on one side its
lofty terrace, the houses of the neighbouring
city came full and close into view, divided from
my fairyland of life but by the trodden
murmurous thoroughfare winding low beneath the
ivied parapets; and as now, again, the world of
men abruptly vanished behind the screening
foliage of luxuriant June.

At last the enchanted glade opened out from
the verdure, its borders fragrant with syringa,
and rose, and woodbine; and there, by the grey
memorial of the gone Gothic age, my eyes
seemed to close their unquiet wanderings, resting
spell-bound on that image which had become
to me the incarnation of earth's bloom and
youth.

She stood amidst the Past, backed by the
fragments of walls which man had raised to
seclude him from human passion, locking under
those lids so downcast, the secret of the only
knowledge I asked from the boundless Future.

Ah, what mockery there is in that grand
word, the world's fierce war-cry, Freedom!
Who has not known one period of life, and that
so solemn that its shadows may rest over all
life hereafter, when one human creature has
over him a sovereignty more supreme and