sensation against poor Lizzie, which. I cannot
describe.

And how long was this to go on? (I put
this question to myself, sitting among the
dark gloomy shadows of my study.) Were
all my studies to be broken in upon with
cold looks and harsh words? Was I to have
my chief hope and comfort in life embittered?
An idea struck me. In a day or so I should
have to go down to Donninghurst on business.
Suppose I went that very evening
instead? I would be there in an hour or so,
and could return to-morrow if it suited me.
Here was a ready means of release offered
me. I could withdraw myself for a little
from London, which I had begun to hate,
and from home, which was growing distasteful
to me. It would be a pleasant change of
scene; and I felt, besides, a craving for solitude
and the companionship of my books. I
longed for a quiet evening in my little study,
many miles removed from unkindness and
domestic bickerings. So all these things then
appeared to my distorted vision.

It seemed a rare scheme; and so I lost no
time in executing it. I packed up a few
things, and telling Lizzie, coldly enough,
that I would most likely return early in the
morning, departed by that night's train.

About seven o'clock that evening we came
rolling into Donninghurst. It was a raw,
bleak night, with a harsh, black frost abroad;
—not your true, genial, inspiring weather,
covering the ground with crisp snow, and
making the cheeks tingle,—but a dark, lowering
atmosphere, very dispiriting and oppressive.
Therefore it was that I felt very
uncomfortable and out of sorts as I stood in
the cold, comfortless study, watching the slow
process of kindling a fire. No one had
expected me on such a night—naturally
enough—so I found every thing cold and desolate.
There was an ancient retainer always
left in charge of the house, whom I took a
dismal pleasure in likening to Caleb Balderstone,
in the Novel. His queer ways and curious
make-shifts in providing for the emergency
were so many occasions of identifying
myself with the unhappy Master of Ravenswood
and his follower. At last a fire was lighted,
and I settled myself down for the night.
What should I have down, I said, looking
round affectionately on the shelves. Old
Fuller?—None better—Old Fuller, by all
means. I got him down reverently and
cleared the dust from him gently. I was
going to have a night of enjoyment.

When he was properly bestowed upon the
oaken reading-desk, and the lamp had been
turned up to the full, and one last poke given
to the fire, I felt that I had all the elements
of a studious night to hand, and that I ought
to be exceedingly pleasant and comfortable.
Yet someway Good Old Fuller seemed to me
not quite so racy that night. I felt inexpressibly
lonely, and every now and again I heard
the wind, which had begun to rise, coming
round the corner with a low moan, which
gave me a very dismal feeling. Do as I
would, I could not shut out Caleb Balderstone.
Then, too, I found my eyes were perpetually
wandering from Good Old Fuller to
the coals, where I would discover all manner
of distracting visions.

It certainly was a noble edition—that
Chronicle, said I, reverting to the events of
the day—a noble one truly. O how could
she have let me miss it! And yet who knows?
I might fall in with another copy some of
these days! But then she had no need to speak
to me in that way—to ridicule me—to
reproach me. No matter about that now—to
business—With that, I came back again to old
Fuller—for about a page and half of him—as
it might be. It was very singular. I could
not lay myself down to work. I grew annoyed
—vexed. Impatiently I pushed the Ancient
Worthy far from me, and leaning back in my
chair fell to studying the fire once more—
watching the wreaths of smoke curling
upwards—every now and then taking the shape
of a bright, gentle little face that seemed to
look at me reproachfully.

Alone, here, in this desolate spot—alone
with Old Fuller and his brethren. And these
false slaves to whom I had bound myself,
and sacrificed all, were now deserting me
when I most needed their assistance. I
likened them, bitterly, to the Familiars
in the old Magic Legends who treacherously
abandoned their masters in their greatest
straits. And Lizzie (sweet Lizzie she was
once!) all alone in the great London world,
keeping her lonely vigil! Just then there
came up before me, as it were, floating from
the past, a vision of another time—not so long
passed away—coming to me, as it were, in a
flood of golden light, wherein Old Fuller
appeared to shrivel up, and shrink away into
a dry, sapless Ancient, as he was. It was on
a clear moonlight night—I well recollected—
with the ground all covered with snow, and I
was coming out beneath the vicarage-porch,
going home for that night—when she, sweet
Lizzie, came out into the moonlight, and we
lingered there for a few moments, looking
round and admiring the scene. Such a
soft tranquil night, with a bright glare shining
forth from the midst of the dark mass
rising behind us, showing where the Doctor
was hard at work in his room. I often
thought of that night after, and of the picture
of Lizzie, as she stood there with her face
upturned to the moon. Conjuring up
this vision from the fire, and recalling her
mournful, subdued face, as she lay upon the
sofa, when I so abruptly quitted her, I felt
a bitter pang of self-reproach, and found my
repugnance for the cold, senseless creatures
around me, increasing every instant.

After that there came a feeling over me
that I had been sitting there for hours—for
long weary hours, and that morning would
never come. Suddenly it seemed to me that