words to pour from my lips which ought never
to have crept into my heart. In vain; my
father was inexorable.

I was in the drawing-room. Suddenly,
noiselessly, Felix was beside me. He had
not entered by the door which was directly
in front of me; and the window was closed.
I never could understand this sudden appearance;
for I am certain that he had not been
concealed.

"Your father has spoken of me, Lizzie?"
he said with a singular smile. I was silent.

"And has forbidden you to see me again?"
he continued.

"Yes," I answered, impelled to speak by
something stronger than my will.

"And you intend to obey him?"

"No," I said again, in the same manner, as
if I had been talking in a dream.

He smiled again. Who was he so like
when he smiled? I could not remember, and
yet I knew that he was like some one I had
seen—a face that hovered outside my memory,
on the horizon, and never floated near enough
to be distinctly realized.

"You are right, Lizzie," he then said;
"there are ties which are stronger than a
father's commands; ties which no man has
the right, and no man has the power to break.
Meet me to-morrow at noon in the Low Lane;
we will speak further."

He did not say this in any supplicating, nor
in any loving manner; it was simply a
command, unaccompanied by one tender word or
look. He had never said he loved me—never;
it seemed to be too well understood between
us to need assurances.

I answered, "yes," burying my face in my
hands, in shame at this my first act of
disobedience to my father; and, when I raised
my head, he was gone. Gone as he had
entered, without a footfall sounding ever so
lightly.

I met him the next day, and it was not the
only time that I did so. Day after day I stole
at his command from the house, to walk with
him in the Low Lane—the lane which the
country people said was haunted, and which
was consequently always deserted. And there
we used to walk or sit under the blighted elm
tree for hours; he talking, but I not
understanding all he said: for there was a tone of
grandeur and of mystery in his words that
overpowered without enlightening me, and
that left my spirit dazzled rather than
convinced. I had to give reasons at home for
my long absences, and he bade me say that
I had been with old Dame Todd, the blind
widow of Thornhill Rise, and that I had been
reading the Bible to her. And I obeyed,
although, while I said it, I felt Lucy's eyes
fixed plaintively on mine, and heard her
murmur a prayer that I might be forgiven.

Lucy grew ill. As the flowers and the
summer sun came on, her spirit faded more
rapidly away. I have known since, that it
was grief more than malady which was killing
her. The look of nameless suffering which
used to be in her face, has haunted me through
life with undying sorrow. It was suffering
that I, who ought to have rather died for her,
had caused. But not even her illness stayed
me. In the intervals, I nursed her tenderly
and lovingly as before; but for hours and
hours I left her—all through the long days
of summer—to walk in the Low Lane, and
to sit in my world of poetry and fire. When
I came back my sister was often weeping, and
I knew that it was for me—I, who once would
have given my life to save her from one hour
of sorrow. Then I would fling myself on my
knees beside her, in an agony of shame and
repentance, and promise better things of the
morrow, and vow strong efforts against the
power and the spell that was on me. But the
morrow subjected me to the same unhallowed
fascination, the same faithlessness.

At last Felix told me that I must come
with him; that I must leave my home, and
take part in his life; that I belonged to him
and to him only, and that I could not break
the tablet of a fate ordained; that I was his
destiny, and he mine, and that I must fulfil
the law which the stars had written in the
sky. I fought against this. I spoke of my
father's anger, and of my sister's illness. I
prayed to him for pity, not to force this on
me, and knelt in the shadows of the autumn
sunset to ask from him forbearance.

I did not yield this day, nor the next, nor
for many days. At last he conquered. When
I said "Yes," he kissed the scarf I wore round
my neck. Until then he had never touched
even my hand with his lips. I consented to
leave my sister, who I well knew was dying;
I consented to leave my father, whose whole
life had been one act of love and care for his
children; and to bring a stain on our name,
unstained until then. I consented to leave
those who loved me, all I loved, for a
stranger.

All was prepared; the hurrying clouds, lead
coloured, and the howling wind, the fit
companions in nature with the evil and the despair
of my soul. Lucy was worse to-day; but
though I felt going to my death, in leaving
her, I could not resist. Had his voice called
me to the scaffold, I must have gone. It was
the last day of October, and at midnight, when
I was to leave the house. I had kissed my
sleeping sister, who was dreaming in her sleep,
and cried, and grasped my hand, called aloud,
"Lizzie, Lizzie!, Come back!" But the spell
was on me, and I left her; and still her dreaming
voice called out, choking with sobs, "Not
there! not there, Lizzie! Come back to
me!"

I was to leave the house by the large, old,
haunted room that I have spoken of before;
Felix waiting for me outside. And, a little
after twelve o'clock, I opened the door to pass
through. This time the chill, and the damp,
and the darkness unnerved me. The broken
mirror was in the middle of the room, as