moment I had no heart for this:
such trifling would ill suit me now. To Lady Julia, then, I determined
to write: she knew me well. Besides, I felt that, when I was no more,
the kindliness of her nature would prevail, and she would remember me
but as the little lover that brought her bouquets from the conservatory;
who wrote letters to her from Eton; who wore her picture round his
neck at Sandhurst, and, by-the-bye, that picture I had still in my
possession: this was the time to restore it. I opened my writing-desk
and took it out. It was a strange love-gift, painted when she was barely
ten years old. It represented a very lovely child, with blue eyes, and a
singular regularity of feature, like a Grecian statue. The intensity of
look that after years developed more fully, and the slight curl of the
lip that betrayed the incipient spirit of mockery, were both there;
still was she very beautiful I placed the miniature before me and fixed
my eyes upon it. Carried away by the illusion of the moment, I burst
into a rhapsody of proffered affection, while I vindicated myself
against any imputation my intimacy with Miss Bellew might give rise
to. As I proceeded, however, I discovered that my pleading scarce
established my innocence even to myself; so I turned away, and once more
sat down moodily before the fire.

The Castle clock struck two. I started up, somewhat ashamed of myself at
not having complied with O'Grady's advice, and at once threw myself on
my bed, and fell sound asleep. Some confused impression upon my mind of
a threatened calamity gave a gloomy character to all my dreams, and
more than once I awoke with a sudden start and looked about me. The
flickering and uncertain glare of the dying embers threw strange goblin
shapes upon the wall and on the old oak floor. The window-curtains waved
mournfully to and fro, as the sighing night wind pierced the openings
of the worn casements, adding, by some unknown sympathy, to my gloom
and depression; and although I quickly rallied myself from these foolish
fancies, and again sank into slumber, it was always again to wake with
the same unpleasant impressions, and with the same sights and sounds
about me. Towards morning, however, I fell into a deep, unbroken sleep,
from which I was awakened by the noise of some one rudely drawing my
curtains. I looked up, as I rubbed my eyes: it was Corny Delany, who,
with a mahogany box under his arm, and a little bag in his hand, stood
eyein