Lilian turned her eyes towards me, and evidently
listened with attention. He wrote how the Child
had already become the most useful person
in the simple household. How watchful the
quickness of the heart had made the service of
the eye; all their associations of comfort had
grown round her active noiseless movements; it
was she who had contrived to monopolise the
management, or supervision of all that added to
Home the nameless interior charm; under her
eyes the rude furniture of the loghouse grew
inviting with English neatness; she took charge
of the dairy; she had made the garden gay with
flowers selected from the wild, and suggested
the trellised walk, already covered with hardy
vine; she was their confidant in every plan of
improvement, their comforter in every anxious
doubt, their nurse in every passing ailment; her
very smile a refreshment in the weariness of daily
toil. "How all that is best in womanhood," wrote
the old man, with the enthusiasm which no time
had reft from his hearty healthful genius," How
all that is best in womanhood is here opening
fast into flower from the bud of the infant's soul!
The atmosphere seems to suit it—the child-woman
in the child-world!"

I heard Lilian sigh; I looked towards her
furtively; tears stood in her softened eyes; her
lip was quivering. Presently, she began to rub
her right hand over the left over the weddingring
—at first, slowly; then with quicker movement.

"It is not here," she said, impatiently; "it is
not here!"

"What is not here?" asked Mrs. Ashleigh,
hanging over her.

Lilian leant back her head on her mother's
bosom, and answered faintly:

"The stain! some one said there was a stain
on this hand. I do not see it—do you?"

"There is no stain, never was," said I; "the
hand is white as your own innocence, or the
lily from which you take your name."

"Hush! you do not know my name. I will
whisper it. Soft!—my name is Nightshade!
Do you want to know where the lily is now,
brother? I will tell you. There, in that letter—
you call her Amy—she is the lily—take her to
your breast—hide her. Hist! what are those
bells? Marriage-bells. Do not let her hear
them. For there is a cruel wind that whispers
the bells, and the bells ring out what it whispers,
louder and louder,

'Stain on lily,
Shame on lily,
Wither lily.'

If she hears what the wind whispers to the bells,
she will creep away into the dark, and then she,
too, will turn to Nightshade."

"Lilian, look up, awake! You have been in
a long, long dream: it is passing away. Lilian,
my beloved, my blessed Lilian!"

Never till then had I heard from her even so
vague an allusion to the fatal calumny, and its
dreadful effect; and while her words now pierced
my heart, it beat, amongst its pangs, with a
thrilling hope.

But, alas! the idea that had gleamed upon
her had vanished already. She murmured
something about Circles of Fire, and a Veiled Woman
in black garments; became restless, agitated, and
unconscious of our presence, and finally sank
into a heavy sleep.

That night (my room was next to hers with
the intervening door open), I heard her cry out.
I hastened to her side. She was still asleep, but
there was an anxious labouring expression on
her young face, and yet not an expression wholly
of pain—for her lips were parted with a smile--
that glad yet troubled smile with which one who
has been revolving some subject of perplexity or
fear, greets a sudden thought that seems to solve
the riddle, or prompt the escape from danger;
and as I softly took her hand she returned my
gentle pressure, and inclining towards me, said,
still in sleep,

"Let us go."

"Whither?" I answered, under my breath, so
as not to awake her;" is it to see the child of
whom I read, and the land that is blooming out
of the earth's childhood?"

"Out of the dark into the light; where the
leaves do not change; where the night is our
day, and the winter our summer. Let us go—
let us go!"

"We will go. Dream on undisturbed, my
bride. Oh, that the dream could tell you that
my love has not changed in our sorrow, holier
and deeper than on the day in which our vows
were exchanged! In you still all my hopes
fold their wings: where you are, there still I
myself have my dreamland!"

The sweet face grew bright as I spoke; all
trouble left the smile; softly she drew her hand
from my clasp, and rested it for a moment on
my bended head, as if in blessing.

I rose; stole back to my own room, closing
the door, lest the sob I could not stifle should
mar her sleep.

CHAPTER LXVI.

I unfolded my new prospects to Mrs. Ashleigh.
She was more easily reconciled to them
than I could have supposed, judging by her
labits, which were naturally indolent, and averse
to all that disturbed their even tenour. But the
great grief which had befallen her had roused up
that strength of devotion which lies dormant in
all hearts that are capable of loving another
more than self. With her full consent I wrote
to Faber, communicating my intentions,
instructing him to purchase the property he had
so commended, and enclosing my banker's order
for the amount, on an Australian firm. I now
announced my intention to retire from my
profession; made prompt arrangements with a
successor to my practice; disposed of my two
houses at L——; fixed the day of my departure.
Vanity was dead within me, or I might have
been gratified by the sensation which the news
of my design created. My faults became at