winter
rose-tree, and the jessamine, and the passion-flower: the garden in
front with the standard roses tended by her hands; the long wall to the
left striped by the branches of the cherry, the peep of a further garden
through the wall, and then the orchard, and the fields beyond--the happy
circle of her dwelling! it flashed before his eyes while he looked on
the darkness. And yet it was the reverse of hope which kindled this
light and inspired the momentary calm he experienced: it was despair
exaggerating delusion, wilfully building up on a groundless basis. "For
the tenacity of true passion is terrible," says The Pilgrim's Scrip:
"it will stand against the hosts of heaven, God's great array of Facts,
rather than surrender its aim, and must be crushed before it will
succumb--sent to the lowest pit!" He knew she was not there; she was
gone. But the power of a will strained to madness fought at it, kept it
down, conjured forth her ghost, and would have it as he dictated. Poor
youth! the great array of facts was in due order of march.

He had breathed her name many times, and once over-loud; almost a cry
for her escaped him. He had not noticed the opening of a door and the
noise of a foot along the gravel walk. He was leaning over Cassandra's
uneasy neck watching the one window intently, when a voice addressed him
out of the darkness.

"Be that you, young gentleman?--Mr. Fev'rel?"

Richard's trance was broken. "Mr. Blaize!" he said; recognizing the
farmer's voice.

"Good even'n t' you, sir," returned the farmer. "I knew the mare though
I didn't know you. Rather bluff to-night it be. Will ye step in, Mr.
Fev'rel? it's beginning' to spit,--going to be a wildish night, I
reckon."

Richard dismounted. The farmer called one of his men to hold the mare,
and ushered the young man in. Once there, Richard's conjurations ceased.
There was a deadness about the rooms and passages that told of her
absence. The walls he touched--these were the vacant shells of her.
He had never been in the house since he knew her, and now what strange
sweetness, and what pangs!

Young Tom Blaize was in the parlour, squared over the table in
open-mouthed examination of an ancient book of the fashions for a summer
month which had elapsed during his mother's minority. Young Tom was
respectfully studying the aspects of the radiant beauties of the polite
work. He also was a thrall of woman, newly enrolled, and full of wonder.

"What, Tom!" the far