my heart; and did not go near Olive for
several days. But I had not strength
enough to give her up of my own accord. I
had read and heard of young girls, who had
kept to their promises through disgrace and
sorrow, only clinging the firmer to the object
of their affections when the world frowned
around them. Perhaps, Olive might be
one of those heroic spirits. You see how
selfishly, how weakly I acted throughout.
Worn out at length in body and mind, torn
by two opposite passions—burning desire to
avenge myself on the man who had wronged
me so foully, and fear that my love would
be rejected—I felt the gradual approach of
that demon of madness whose prey I had
been before; and who required at times, even
when I was in the full flush of health, the
utmost strength of my will, and power of my
reason, to keep him at bay. I felt his
approach, and I trembled. I knew that there
was only one thing which could save me—
the sweet assurance that I was still loved.
My mind made up how to act, I went at once
and sought an interview with Olive. I told
her my love, but not my disgrace. I meant
to tell her that afterwards, but she never
gave me an opportunity. She cut short my
confession before I had uttered above a dozen
words, by telling me that she was engaged
to another, and shortly to be married; that
anything which had passed between us
heretofore merely arose out of friendship on her
part; that she was astonished to find how it
had been construed by me; and had given
me credit for more sense than she now found
I possessed. All this she said in cold,
measured sentences, with a heartless smile of
triumph on her face that maddened me even
more than her words. I would not trust myself
to reply, for I was no longer my own master;
but quitted her at once. What happened for
a long time after this, remains in my memory
only like the fragments of a troubled dream,
recalled with effort the next day. The madness
that had long lurked in my brain burst
forth in a moment, armed and full grown,
and I lay powerless in its grasp. I must
avenge myself somehow—that was my
uppermost thought. By some strange mental
process which I am unable to explain, the captain
who had disgraced me, and the rival who
had supplanted me, had become merged into
one individual in my thoughts, and him I
must slay. It was necessary that I should
kill him. My recollections are so broken and
confused that I cannot recall even these fragments
without painful effort.

"With a madman's keenness, I knew that
Caleb suspected me, and had set himself to
watch me. I smiled at the idea, and got rid
of him by a simple device. Next I am under
the willows, waiting for the lovers; though I
cannot now tell what made me think they
would pass that way. It is dark, or only
vague moonlight. I see them approaching—
a dark, tall figure, my double enemy; a frail
shrinking figure, my lost darling. I hear
their whispered words of love. He stoops
down to kiss her. A wave of fire rushes
over my brain at the sight, and from this
moment my recollection ceases. A terrible
blank, that lasted for several weeks, ensued;
and I knew nothing more till I one day found
myself lying in a strange bed, with two pitying
eyes bent over me that I had never seen
before. I have done. Oh Father! have you
no words of comfort for me? Tell me, am I
forgiven?"

"Bear witness, all of you!" said my father,
appealing to us. "You hear how he was
afflicted. Philip's voice, at this hour, speaks
through me, and pronounces him innocent.
O wife! O children! take him to your hearts
once more, guiltless of the crime of blood as
on the day he was born!"

Here my pen must stop. A father's last
words are sacred, and not to be lightly told.
At ten o'clock that morning he died; his arm
laid lovingly round the wanderer's neck.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

IT was the evening of the day on which
my father was buried. Neville took rny arm,
and we walked out together in the direction
of the churchyard. The mound was already
formed, and covered with square patches of
turf roughly joined. The grey quiet of the
summer eve was broken only by the soft
rustle of the poplar leaves on the tall trees
that grew around, and by the grave cawing
of a cloud of distant rooks, returning from
some predatory excursion.

"The dead sleep well," said Neville, as we
stepped into the churchyard. "They neither
see nor hear what passes above their dark
homes. Tears of sorrow, words of remorse,
affect them not. They are beyond our touch—
beyond our call—gone from us for ever.
I also must depart. I cannot remain here,
in a spot where I have been the cause of so
much misery to others, and which teems with
such recollections for myself."

"Surely, Neville, you will not leave us,
now we are so few on the ground!"

"To remain here, Caleb, would kill me,
not bodily, but mentally. In work, and
constant action, and ceaseless endeavour, lie my
only resources against my enemy. In another
land, amid the growing powers of a new
country,I may, perhaps, find what I should
seek here in vain. In a few days more I
shall bid farewell to the home where I was
born, to all on earth who love me, and to
these holy graves. Somewhat of the heavy
weight of guilt seems to have been lifted off
my soul since my father spake to me those
comforting words, and pronounced me guiltless
in intention of my cousin's death. And
now I must wander forth: it is my doom.
Come; the dew is falling, and it is almost
dark. They will be looking for us at
home."

Next morning, as we all sat together after