ome a suitor of Lucy
Ashton. The possibility of being rejected, too, should he make advances
to her wealthy and powerful father--to sue for the hand of an Ashton and
be refused--this were a consummation too disgraceful. "I wish her well,"
he said to himself, "and for her sake I forgive the injuries her father
has done to my house; but I will never--no, never see her more!"

With one bitter pang he adopted this resolution, just as he came to
where two paths parted: the one to the Mermaiden's Fountain, where he
knew Lucy waited him, the other leading to the castle by another and
more circuitous road. He paused an instant when about to take the latter
path, thinking what apology he should make for conduct which must needs
seem extraordinary, and had just muttered to himself, "Sudden news from
Edinburgh--any pretext will serve; only let me dally no longer here,"
when young Henry came flying up to him, half out of breath: "Master,
Master you must give Lucy your arm back to the castle, for I cannot give
her mine; for Norman is waiting for me, and I am to go with him to make
his ring-walk, and I would not stay away for a gold Jacobus; and Lucy is
afraid to walk home alone, though all the wild nowt have been shot, and
so you must come away directly."

Betwixt two scales equally loaded, a feather's weight will turn the
scale. "It is impossible for me to leave the young lady in the wood
alone," said Ravenswood; "to see her once more can be of little
consequence, after the frequent meetings we have had. I ought, too, in
courtesy, to apprise her of my intention to quit the castle."

And having thus satisfied himself that he was taking not only a wise,
but an absolutely necessary, step, he took the path to the fatal
fountain. Henry no sooner saw him on the way to join his sister than he
was off like lightning in another direction, to enjoy the society of the
forester in their congenial pursuits. Ravenswood, not allowing himself
to give a second thought to the propriety of his own conduct, walked
with a quick step towards the stream, where he found Lucy seated alone
by the ruin.

She sate upon one of the disjointed stones of the ancient fountain,
and seemed to watch the progress of its current, as it bubbled forth to
daylight, in gay and sparkling profusion, from under the shadow of the
ribbed and darksome vault, with which veneration, or perhaps remorse,
had canopied its source. To a superstitious eye, Lucy Ashton, folded in
her