but too
well. I bent my eyes upon the ground,--his arm was around my waist, his
hand clasped mine, his lips approached my cheek. A shadow seemed
suddenly to come between me and the sun. I looked up and saw Eleanor,
clad in mourning, standing before us. I started at once to my feet,
and, like the coward that I am, fled and left them together. I ran down
to the old hawthorn-tree, against which I leaned, panting and
trembling. Yet, in a few moments, ashamed of my weakness, I stole back
to where I could see them unobserved. Eleanor stood upon the same spot,
calm and motionless. Thornton was speaking, but I was too far off to
hear more than the sound of his voice. When he had ended, he approached
her, as if to bid her adieu; but she passed him with a stately bow, and
entered the hall-door. Thornton took his way to the stables, and I soon
heard the clattering of his horse's hoofs on the hard gravelled road.
When the sound died away in the distance, I stole into the house and
crept up to my chamber. How long I was there I could not tell; but when
I heard the bell ring for tea, I washed my face and smoothed my hair.
I would not be so cowardly as to fear to see Eleanor again, and perhaps
it would be better for us both to meet in the presence of a third
person.

"Mrs. Bickford was alone at the table. 'Miss Purcill would not come
down tonight,--she was fatigued with her journey.'

"The good lady strove to entertain me with her conversation, but,
finding that I neither heard, answered, nor ate, our meal was soon
brought to a close. It is long past midnight. I have thought till I am
sick and giddy with thinking. I cannot sleep, and have been writing
here to control the wildness of my imaginings. I have been twice to
Eleanor's chamber. The door is half ground-glass, and I can see her
black shadow as she walks to and fro across the room. She has been
walking so ever since she entered it.

"_October_ 4.--What shall I do? Where shall I go? All night and all day
Eleanor has walked her chamber-floor. I have been to the door. I have
knocked. I have called her by name. I have turned the handle,--the door
is locked. No answer comes to me,--nothing but the black shadow
flitting across the panes. I sat down by the threshold and burst into
tears.

"Mrs. Bickford found me there. 'Do not grieve so, Miss Elizabeth,' said
she, kindly. 'It is dreadful, I know; but Miss Purcill walked the floor
all night after her father died, and would admit no