n a niche in the wall of the church, high up above
the heads of the congregation, and gave the idea of being placed in a
sort of pulpit. The bust was but a rude work of art, but it had the
reputation of being the only authentic likeness of the poet; and,
therefore, it was with intense interest that I scanned the features. I
fancied that I could descry, in spite of the rude workmanship of the
stonemason, certain lines about the mouth and eyes that indicated that
droll humour displayed in his comedies. I stood rooted to the spot.

"Around me were the tombs of the Lucy family; close to the poet's own
dust the graves of his wife and daughter. But let me hasten to the more
important point in my narrative.

"After I left the church I was shown the dead of the Lucy family, and
obtained permission to wander over the grounds. 'In that house,' I said
to myself, 'lives the lineal descendant of that squire before whom the
bard was brought for poaching, and whom afterwards he is supposed to
have caricatured under the title of "Justice Shallow."'

"I wandered alone through the forest of Arden, and seemed to imbibe
inspiration from the surrounding scenery. I called up scenes from 'As
you like it,' and other plays. I sat down on the grass in a wooded spot,
and watched the deer.

"'Here,' I thought, to myself, 'must be the spot where the melancholy
Jacques moralised on the wounded deer. Yonder, perhaps, where he met the
fool in the forest.' I mused awhile, and then opened my Shakespeare at
the scene of Rosalind and Celia, followed by Touchstone, and became
deeply engrossed.

"I might have been half-an-hour poring over this scene, when I lifted my
eyes from my book and beheld coming towards me in the distance the slim
and graceful form of a lady, reading a book which was bound in the same
fashion as the book I was reading, and which, therefore, I concluded
must be a Shakespeare. She approached with her eyes still fixed on the
book. At length, as I gazed on her she closed the book, and her eyes met
mine.

"'Edith!' I cried, 'do I dream still, or is it indeed yourself in the
flesh?'

"She was no less surprised than myself.

"'Charles!' she exclaimed, 'how have you tracked me hither? Did you know
of----'

"'Tracked you, Edith!' I exclaimed. 'I knew nothing of your whereabouts.
This is the hand of Fate.'

"'Oh, Charles, is it possible!' she cried. 'To think that we should live
to meet in the flesh.'

"We embraced, and strolled