they had come ceased to flourish;
though here and there, just as they had been dragged forth from the
boggy depths, lay, waiting for carriage, huge roots of pines, that had
been growing, perhaps, two thousand years before, and now, probed for
and dragged to the surface, proved to be sound--undecayed, and
crystallised with the abundant turpentine, forming a fuel much sought
after by the country people.

"Marion, darling," whispered the fair girl, passing her arm round the
other's waist, and speaking in soft, deep tones--a perfect contrast to
her gay accents of a few moments before--"try not to mourn now: it is
hardly loyal, and it is of no avail. I too have wept for the dead, many
and many a time."

"Yes; we all weep for our passed away," said Marion, sadly.

"Yes, true; I mourned, too, for poor Philip, Marion."

"You, Ada?"

"Yes; why not? I feel no shame in owning that I loved him, too--warmly
as ever you could, though I saw his preference and bore it in silence."

"You, you--Ada?"

"Yes, dear, I. You think me light and frivolous, but may not that be
merely on the surface? I wept long when I found that he loved and was
engaged to you; but I hid my secret, for my only wish was to see him
happy; and you cannot say that I ever failed in my friendship."

"Never--never, dear," said Marion, gazing with troubled eyes at her
friend, but clinging to her the while; and then, making their way to the
pine grove, they sat down amongst the soft shed needles to rest,
dreamily pondering over the past, till, starting from her reverie, Ada
Lee exclaimed lightly:

"There, this will not do. Poor Philip has gone to his soldier's grave,
honourably fighting for his country. May Heaven rest him! for he was a
brave fellow; but life is not long enough for much time to be spent in
weeping. There, Marion, darling, rouse your self; this is not a thing
of yesterday. Come! we must get back. Think of the wooing and wedding,
and be as merry and light-hearted as I am. Heigho! I wish, though,
that some one would marry me, and bring me to live down here in these
dear old solemn marshes. How nice for me to be always close to you,
wouldn't it? There's a house across there amongst the trees that would
do capitally. Who lives there?"

"No one, Ada," said the other, sadly. "That is Merland Hall, where poor
Philip should have dwelt."

Ada started, and again her arm was pressed round her companion's waist,
when, almost in silence, t