of the door, but did not turn it. I knew
that now the poor old man was dead, I
should not see her every day, as heretofore;
nay, I thought then that her uncle,
alarmed at the accident which had lately
brought us together so often, would guard her
more cautiously than ever. It seemed to me
that all the future hung upon that moment,
and that if I hastily opened the door, she was
gone from me for ever.

"Do not leave me yet, Amy. Do you not
know, that though I pass each day in the
same place with you, we may not meet again
for many, many days?"

"I know it. I will not deceive you."

"Amy," I said, after a pause—" because
you leave me, now perhaps, as you yourself
have said, not to meet again for some time—
I cannot part with you before I tell you
what is heavy on my heart. Dear Amy, it
might seem to some a selfish thing to talk of
love, which means life and confidence, and
thoughts of happiness, at this time, when
death has been with us; and yet an instinct
tells me that no moment were more fit than
this—an instinct, safer to be trusted, as I
hope, than the shrewdest precepts. Forgive
me! It is not many months since I first
met you in the passage here, about this time
of dusk. Something, I know not what, has
happened to prevent our meeting often; but
many things have come together, in those
few times that we have met, to show me your
true nature. Believe me, Amy, it is not only
for your beauty, but for your goodness, and
your wisdom, that I love you."

She looked at me calmly, and answered:
"You give me credit for good sense, and
though you flatter me, and call it wisdom,
I will show you, at least, that I have learned
to speak frankly is best. I will tell you, then,
that I know no one whom I could love more
sincerely than you; nay, I will not hide, that,
although our acquaintance has been short, I
feel an affection for you, stronger than I have
felt for any one. I have had but little leisure
for such feelings before this. I came here
thinking to find all things strange and cold
and found a new and happier life before me.
Old and young treated me so kindly, that my
heart was fuller than I could say."

I took her hand, and kissed it fervently.
"I did not think to hear you speak like this,
Amy," I said; " but your uncle!"

"My uncle! " repeated Amy, looking down
to the ground, as if I had struck again the
keynote of our conversation, and had brought
her back to the tone in which it began.
"What do I not owe him! You must scarcely
speak to me of this again. I have said to you
more than I should have said; for I have
promised him never to marry while he lives.
Therefore I hold you to no promise; although
it is well, perhaps, that we should wait. For
his sake, we must not tell him of this; for
it would grieve him. Now let me say, farewell."

"Let me kiss you, before we part, Amy!"
said I, as we were near the threshold of the
outlet. She held her cheek out, and I kissed
it twice; but in that moment I felt that the
doorway became darker, although I had heard
no footstep. I turned and saw that it was the
old blind man, whom I had once heard talking
under the library window. He stood in
the middle of the threshold, holding the
frame on each side the door, as Samson held
the pillars—his head bowed towards us, as if
he had been about to enter, and hearing some
one there, had stood to listen. Amy shrieked
faintly.

"I did not mean to frighten you, Miss,
"said he; " I know I am not a well-favoured
man, but if you will let me pass you, I will
be gone."

"It was your sudden coming that startled
us," said I.

"I did not know," replied the old man,
"that there was any one here." He felt with
his hand along the wall, and went up the steps.
We heard his footsteps in the passage, and
then a door shut, and the place was silent again.
We stood there yet some time before we
parted. I waited until Amy was gone, and
then went out into the quadrangle. It was a
dark night.

Oh, I was indeed another man that night!
All my old nature fell from me; and I stood
then, for the first time, face to face with life.
I would be a dreamer no longer. There was
something to me so beautiful in humanity, as
I saw it through her wise and noble nature,
that all the old pleasures of my imagination
seemed as a drunken revel, from which
I awakened to the clear fresh morning of
the heart. I saw now, for the first time,
that it was well, as Amy said, to wait; for
what had I to keep a wife? But I was full of
hope; and I felt a strength within me, that
would master circumstances. '' It is enough,"
I thought, " that Amy loves me. I will wait,
and she shall see how I will strive to make
her happy, when the time arrives."

As I expected, I did not see her again until
the day of the old man's funeral, and then
only for a moment. I met the Warden the
next day, and spoke to him of the old
man; he answered me sharply, and seemed
irritated.

"The old are better dead," said he. " In
this life, where all are battling together, what
chance have they against the young?  If they
have anything of value, jealous and
quick-eyed, the young will watch it for an
opportunity to rob them, or wait about them,
hungry for their deaths, to seize upon it.
They grudge even a kind companion, who
might make their last days happy—who might
serve to waken an affection, that would make
them feel that they yet lived, not wholly
numbed by this slow age that creeps upon us
all. But the old are over-cunning for them
sometimes. They have a weapon, if they
know how to use it."