very serene and tranquil, and from which she
woke of herself. She kept much within her own
room, and always retired to it when visitors were
announced.

Mrs. Ashleigh began reluctantly to relinquish
the persuasion she had so long and so
obstinately maintained that this state of feeling
towards myself—and, indeed, this general change
in Lilian—was but temporary and abnormal; she
began to allow that it was best to drop all
thoughts of a renewed engagement—a future
union. I proposed to see Lilian in her presence
and in my professional capacity; perhaps some
physical cause, especially for this lethargy, might
be detected and removed. Mrs. Ashleigh owned
to me that the idea had occurred to herself;
she had sounded Lilian upon it; but her
daughter had so resolutely opposed it; had
said with so quiet a firmness "that all being
over between us, a visit from me would be
unwelcome and painful;" that Mrs. Ashleigh felt
that an interview thus deprecated would only
confirm estrangement. One day, in calling, she
asked my advice whether it would not be better
to try the effect of change of air and scene, and,
in some other place, some other medical opinion
might be taken? I approved of this suggestion
with unspeakable sadness.

"And," said Mrs. Ashleigh, shedding tears,
"if that experiment prove unsuccessful, I will
write and let you know; and we must then
consider what to say to the world as a reason why
the marriage is broken off. I can render this
more easy by staying away. I will not return
to L—— till the matter has ceased to be the
topic of talk, and at a distance any excuse will
be less questioned and seem more natural. But
still—still—let us hope still."

"Have you one ground for hope?"

"Perhaps so; but you will think it very frail
and fallacious."

"Name it, and let me judge."

"One night in which you were on a visit to
Derval Court——"

"Ay, that night."

"Lilian woke me by a loud cry (she sleeps in
the next room to me, and the door was left
open); I hastened to her bedside in alarm; she
was asleep, but appeared extremely agitated and
convulsed. She kept calling on your name in a
tone of passionate fondness, but as if in great
terror. She cried, 'Do not go, Allen!—do not
go!—you know not what you brave!—what you
do!' Then she rose in her bed, clasping her
hands. Her face was set and rigid: I tried to
awake her, but could not. After a little time,
she breathed a deep sigh, and murmured, 'Allen,
Allen! dear love! did you not hear?—did you
not see me? What could thus baffle matter
and traverse space but love and soul? Can you
still doubt me, Allen? Doubt that I love you
now, shall love you evermore? Yonder, yonder,
as here below?' She then sank back on her
pillow, weeping, and then I woke her."

"And what did she say on waking?"

"She did not remember what she had dreamed,
except that she had passed through some great
terror—but added with a vague smile, 'It is
over, and I feel happy now.' Then she turned
round and fell asleep again, but quietly as a
child, the tears dried, the smile resting."

"Go, my dear friend, go; take Lilian away
from this place as soon as you can; divert her
mind with fresh scenes. I hope!—I do hope!
Let me know where you fix yourself. I will
seize a holiday—I need one; I will arrange as
to my patients—I will come to the same place;
she need not know of it—but I must be by to
watch, to hear your news of her. Heaven bless
you for what you have said! I hope!—I do
hope!"

CHAPTER LIV.

SOME days after, I received a few lines from
Mrs. Ashleigh. Her arrangements for departure
were made. They were to start the next morning.
She had fixed on going into the north of
Devonshire, and staying some weeks either at
Ilfracombe or Lynton, whichever place Lilian
preferred. She would write as soon as they were
settled.

I was up at my usual early hour the next
morning. I resolved to go out towards Mrs.
Ashleigh's house, and watch, unnoticed, where I
might, perhaps, catch a glimpse of Lilian as the
carriage that would convey her to the railway
passed my hiding-place.

I was looking impatiently at the clock; it was
yet two hours before the train by which Mrs.
Ashleigh proposed to leave. A loud ring at my
bell! I opened the door. Mrs. Ashleigh rushed
in, falling on my breast.

"Lilian! Lilian!"

"Heavens! What has happed?"

"She has left—she is gone—gone away! Oh,
Allen! how?—whither? Advise me. What is
to be done?"

"Come in—compose yourself—tell me all
clearly, quickly. Lilian gone? gone away?
Impossible! She must be hid somewhere in the
house—the garden; she, perhaps, did not like
the journey. She may have crept away to some
young friend's house. But / talk when you
should talk: tell me all."

Little enough to tell! Lilian had seemed
unusually cheerful the night before, and pleased
at the thought of the excursion. Mother and
daughter retired to rest early: Mrs. Ashleigh
saw Lilian sleeping quietly before she herself
went to bed. She woke betimes in the morning,
dressed herself, went into the next room to call
Lilian—Lilian was not there. No suspicion of
flight occurred to her. Perhaps her daughter
might be up already, and gone down stairs,
remembering something she might wish to pack
and take with her on the journey. Mrs.
Ashleigh. was confirmed in this idea when she noticed
that her own room door was left open. She
went down stairs, met a maid-servant in the hall,
who told her, with alarm and surprise, that both
the street and garden doors were found