durance, in marked contrast to the other portions of
the edifice. Linton cast one more glance around the gloomy entrance, and
sallied forth into the free air. "I 'll see you to-morrow, Tom," said
he, "and we'll have some talk together. Good night."

"Good night, and good luck to yer honer; but won't you let me see your
honer out of the grounds,--as far as the big gate, at least?"

"Thanks; I know the road perfectly already, and I rather like a lonely
stroll of a fine night like this."

Tom, accordingly, reiterated his good wishes, and Linton was suffered
to pursue his way unaccompanied. Increasing his speed as he arrived at a
turn of the road, he took the path which led off the main approach, and
led down by the river-side to the cottage of Tubber-beg. There was a
feeling of strong interest which prompted him to see this cottage, which
now he might call his own; and as he went, he regarded the little clumps
of ornamental planting, the well-kept walks, the neat palings, the
quaint benches beneath the trees, with very different feelings from
those he had bestowed on the last-visited scene. Nor was he insensible
to the landscape beauty which certain vistas opened, and, seen even by
the faint light of a new moon, were still rich promises of picturesque
situation.

Suddenly, and without any anticipation, he found himself on turning a
little copse of evergreens, in front of the cottage, and almost
beneath the shadow of its deep porch. Whatever his previous feelings of
self-interest in every detail around, they were speedily routed by the
scene before him.

In a large and well furnished drawing-room, where a single lamp was
shining, sat an old man in an easy-chair, his features, his attitude,
and his whole bearing indicating the traces of recent illness. Beside
him, on a low stool almost at his feet, was a young girl of singular
beauty,--the plastic grace of her figure, the easy motion of the
head, as from time to time she raised it to throw upwards a look of
affectionate reverence, and the long, loose masses of her hair, which,
accidentally unfastened, fell on either shoulder, making rather one
of those ideals which a Raphael can conceive than a mere creature of
every-day existence. Although late autumn, the windows lay open to the
ground, for, as yet, no touch of coming winter had visited this secluded
and favored spot. In the still quiet of the night, _her_ voice, for she
alone spoke, could be heard; at first, the mere