od heavens! That was the very evening on which I saw her spirit last
in the stage box!"

I had drawn her soul away from her body for too great a length of time.
_I_ then was the cause of her death. Poor Maud! She was right in saying
she should not live the year out, but I little thought that when her
spirit hurried from my presence on that fatal night that it was then
about to leave the body for ever.

I felt like a murderer. The thought that one so good, so innocent, and
so talented should meet with her death through one so worthless as
myself galled me. My agony was insufferable. "Oh, Maud! would that we
had never met!" I cried aloud, for now, but, alas, too late, I began to
feel the consuming fire of an intense love for her that in her lifetime
was as yet undeveloped; added to which were the stings of remorse for my
own careless, if not wicked, conduct.

I felt now that she had loved _me_. Why had I not come forward before to
crave her hand? Could I not see that she loved me, though she confessed
it not? Fool that I was! Could I not have been happy with her and made
her happy? What was it that made me draw back? I know not. There was
something about her which awed me, and kept me aloof.

Then, again, was I in a position at that time to support a wife? Had I
the right to come forward? No, I answered myself, and this thought
consoled me somewhat, but had I not already allowed myself to be carried
away by a passion that had engulfed both her and myself?

Love, grief, and remorse struggled in my breast for the mastery. I wept
aloud, and kissed the cold gravestone fervently. I know not how long I
might have been thus, for in my anguish I took no count of time, when I
was suddenly aroused by a footstep behind and a voice.

"Mercy on us, who is this?" said the stranger.

I turned, and beheld my friend Merrivale. Whilst taking his morning's
walk as usual he had been attracted by my lamentations, and curiosity
led him to enter the cemetery.

"Why, what the--I say--what! Is that _you_?" he said, as I looked up
abashed in the midst of my grief, and knew not what to reply.

"Come, come," said he. "I understand all, I saw all from the beginning.
I am not surprised, you know, with one of your temperament, but do you
know, young man, you might catch your death of cold, indulging your
grief in the morning dew on a cold gravestone. You must be--really, my
dear sir--you must be insane."

"Doctor," said I, "we may meet anoth