many more as I might require, for the seeking.
In the pleasant month of May I began
my work, and through that summer I
laboured hard at it, taking pedestrian
excursions to lone villages among the hills: or
to some old-world church or mansion, whenever
I found it necessary. Working at it thus
day by day, gradually the chaotic mass of
materials that I possessed, took shape and
order; and the end I had in view grew
clearer before me. I had begun my work as
a relief to my mind, weighed down by the
loss of her I loved; but before I got halfway
through it I loved it for itself. Only in it
could I find relief from the gnawing sorrow
at my heart. When I sat down to write,
even the recollection of Salome faded into
the background for a time; and I felt only
that deep quiet pleasure which they alone
know who see their actual intellectual work
approaching nearer and nearer to the ideal
standard premeditated in the mind. Neither
was I without that happiness which the
encouragement of others, capable of a just
appreciation of my labours, could confer.
Several of the most eminent gentlemen of
the neighbourhood showed much interest in
the progress of my work; and indeed, had it
not been for their kind assistance, it would
probably never have seen the light at all, but
have remained in the limbo of things unborn.
unborn. By the following spring it was finished
and ready for the press. All difficulties in
the way of publishing had been smoothed
over by my friends; and with a beating heart
I despatched my manuscript to
to London.

It came out; and was as successful as such
a work, possessing a local rather than any
general interest, well could be.

But now that my task was completed, my
thoughts flowed back into their old channel,
and I again felt that dreary void at my
heart which I had but charmed away for a
time. If I could but see Salome once again!
was the continual burden of my thoughts. I
was vain enough to think that she might
now perhaps look with more loving eyes upon
me, and even—wild thoughts—condescend to
become my wife. I loved her so well that I
felt as if my passion must perforce subdue
her to the same mood. In all my previous
dreams, if the thought of her as my wife ever
crossed my mind, it was driven back by the
terrible recollection which hung ever like a
leaden weight round iny aspirations, that I
was a felon's son. I had, in some measure,
worked out what I fancifully thought was
my redemption from any tinge of shame that
might attach to my name; and, knowing the
goodness of Salome's heart, I sometimes
thought that I might succeed in winning
her for my own. But where find her?

I had long felt a desire to visit London;
and, during the midsummer vacation of this
year, I determined to gratify my wish. The
first visit to London forms a sort of epoch in
the life of every thinking man: more especially
if he have lived from an early age in a small
country town.

One day, as I was taking a solitary ramble
through the streets, gazing curiously around
me, I perceived two ladies come out of a
draper's shop in the Strand. It was impossible
to be mistaken in the identity of either
of them. They were Mrs. Chinfeather and
Salome. My heart, beat for a moment or two
as though it would burst; and I seemed to
have been suddenly transported into dream-
land, so unreal had that vast world around
me in an instant become. I had eyes for
them alone; but the fear of losing them
amid the hurrying crowd soon brought me
back to reality. Suiting my pace to their
slow walk, I followed them at a distance;
far enough behind not to be distinguished
should they suddenly turn round, and yet
near enough to keep them constantly in
view. I followed them thus for more than
an hour, till I saw them safely housed in
number twenty-four of a quiet and genteel
street; where, as I afterwards learned, Mrs.
Chinfeather rented the first-floor front.
After making a memorandum of the house
and street, and casting many a lingering look
behind, I departed. I hailed a cab, and
returned to my lodgings. As soon as I was
alone in my little room, I sat quietly down to
debate the question with myself, whether it
would be better to see Salome, or merely to
write to her. Evidently the present opportunity
opportunity was one that must not be lost. One
way or other, my fate must now be decided.
My meeting with her was so strange and
unexpected, that, with a superstition common
to lovers, I drew from it an augury favourable
to my hopes. Day deepened into dusk, and dusk
into night, and the great bell of
St. Paul's had tolled twelve ere I had decided
what to do. At length I determined to
write in preference to seeking a personal
interview. I was influenced in this by
various prudential reasons, although my heart
heart beat strongly with the desire to see
her. I might call a dozen times and not find
her at home; or if she were at home, Mrs.
Chinfeather would probably be with her,
and I shrank from the idea of asking
for a private interview with the certainty of
arousing that shrewd lady's suspicions. It
was therefore best to write; and the point
once decided on, I was not long in putting it
into practice. A quarter of an hour sufficed
to see my letter written and sealed, ready
for the post. I did not venture to read it
over, for I knew that I should be dissatisfied
with it were I to do so: and I deemed it best
to trust to what was written on the impulse
of the moment, rather than to any studied
effort. All the following day and night I felt
restless and uneasy, and unable to remain
quietly in any place for long. I wandered
aimlessly through the streets, without thought
or purpose, my mind continually filled with