invoked, gliding through the shrubbery at the
farthest verge of the level ground. The ghastly visage was bent upon
him, the hand steadily pointed towards him, and as the figure slowly
passed away the last reverted gaze was directed to him. "Great God!" he
ejaculated, "that form--that form!" and fell senseless into his chair.

During the night, Mildred was awakened by a low moan, which led her to
visit her father's chamber. He was not there. In great alarm she betook
herself to his study, where she found him extended upon a sofa, so
enfeebled and bewildered by this recent incident that he was scarcely
conscious of her presence.

A few weeks restored Lindsay to his usual health, but it was long before
he regained the equanimity of his mind. He had seen enough to confirm
his faith in the speculations of that pernicious philosophy which is
wrapt up in the studies of which I have before given the outline; and he
was, henceforth, oftentimes melancholy, moody, and reserved in spite of
all the resolves of duty, and in defiance of a temper naturally placid
and kind.

Let us pass from this unpleasant incident to a theme of more cheerful
import: the loves of Mildred and Arthur. I have said these two had
secret meetings. They were not entirely without a witness. There was a
confidant in all their intercourse: no other than Henry Lindsay, who
united to the reckless jollity of youth an almost worshipping love of
his sister. His thoughts and actions were ever akin to hers. Henry was
therefore a safe depository of the precious secret; and as he could not
but think Arthur Butler a good and gallant comrade, he determined that
his father was altogether on the wrong side in respect to the love
affair, and, by a natural sequence, wrong also in his politics.

Henry had several additional reasons for this last opinion. The whole
country-side was kindled into a martial flame, and there was nothing to
be heard but drums and trumpets. There were rifle-corps raising, and
they were all dressed in hunting-shirts, and bugles were blowing, and
horses were neighing: how could a gallant of sixteen resist it? Besides,
Stephen Foster, the woodman, right under the brow of the Dove Cote, was
a lieutenant of mounted riflemen, and had, for some time past, been
training Henry in the mystery of his weapon, and had given him divers
lessons on the horn to sound the signals, and had enticed him furtively
to ride in a platoon on parade, whereof he had dubbed He