made a Spectre of REPOSE!

But while Gertrude's _spirit_ resumed its healthful tone, her _frame_
rapidly declined, and a few days now could do the ravage of months a
little while before.

One evening, amidst the desolate ruins of Heidelberg, Trevylyan, who had
gone forth alone to indulge the thoughts which he strove to stifle in
Gertrude's presence, suddenly encountered Vane. That calm and almost
callous pupil of the adversities of the world was standing alone, and
gazing upon the shattered casements and riven tower, through which the
sun now cast its slant and parting ray.

Trevylyan, who had never loved this cold and unsusceptible man, save
for the sake of Gertrude, felt now almost a hatred creep over him, as he
thought in such a time, and with death fastening upon the flower of his
house, he could yet be calm, and smile, and muse, and moralize, and play
the common part of the world. He strode slowly up to him, and standing
full before him, said with a hollow voice and writhing smile, "You amuse
yourself pleasantly, sir: this is a fine scene; and to meditate over
griefs a thousand years hushed to rest is better than watching over a
sick girl and eating away your heart with fear!"

Vane looked at him quietly, but intently, and made no reply.

"Vane!" continued Trevylyan, with the same preternatural attempt at
calm, "Vane, in a few days all will be over, and you and I, the things,
the plotters, the false men of the world, will be left alone,--left by
the sole being that graces our dull life, that makes by her love either
of us worthy of a thought!"

Vane started, and turned away his face. "You are cruel," said he, with a
faltering voice.

"What, man!" shouted Trevylyan, seizing him abruptly by the arm, "can
_you_ feel? Is your cold heart touched? Come then," added he, with a
wild laugh, "come, let us be friends!"

Vane drew himself aside, with a certain dignity, that impressed
Trevylyan even at that hour. "Some years hence," said he, "you will
be called cold as I am; sorrow will teach you the wisdom of
indifference--it is a bitter school, sir,--a bitter school! But think
you that I do indeed see unmoved my last hope shivered,--the last tie
that binds me to my kind? No, no! I feel it as a man may feel; I cloak
it as a man grown gray in misfortune should do! My child is more to
me than your betrothed to you; for you are young and wealthy, and life
smiles before you; but I--no more--sir, no more!"

"Forgive me,"