he moment he felt confused, his heart fluttered, and he passed on
with two or three hurried steps. This incident, trifling as it was,
deprived him of a whole night's sleep. He feared he had betrayed some
awkwardness on the occasion; and yet, somehow or other, he had no
fear of obtaining her forgiveness. Often and often he walked in the
neighbourhood of the manse, avoiding being seen by her, but still seeing
her; or, if not, indulging the delight of being near her. He had no
heart to walk in any other direction. If he strolled out in the morning,
or in the quiet of the evening, he proceeded almost instinctively
towards the manse; and if he passed any distance beyond it, an
irresistible impulse caused him to retrace his steps.

These lonely walks, often at unseasonable hours, and without any
apparent object, were not unobserved by the villagers, and gave rise to
much speculation. Many weeks passed, and still the mystery continued;
and Jones found, ere long, that he was regarded not only with suspicion,
but terror. All the petty crimes, too, which occurred in the
neighbourhood, were set down to his charge; and time, which he thought
would clear his name, seemed only to blacken it the more. Every means,
too, were taken to persecute him, and drive him from the place; but
absence to him was now despair. He was chained to the spot by an
uncontrollable destiny; and felt that, although pressed to the
uttermost, he was yet wholly incapable of retreat.

Jones was proprietor of a small property in the village, which had
been left him by an uncle, and which first induced him to take up his
residence in that quarter; he had also a small sum of money laid out at
interest; and, both together, had hitherto yielded him a sufficient
competency.

One by one, however, the houses on which he chiefly relied became
tenantless, and nothing seemed to await him but poverty and
wretchedness.

But then Miss Manners! Like a star in the heavens, she became brighter
as his prospects darkened; and yet he feared that, like a star, he could
only admire her at a distance. He had told his love to the listening
winds; he had whispered it to his pillow; he had mingled his plaint
with that of the running brooks. But, to human ear, he had breathed it
neither in sighs nor words. Him, a wanderer and an outcast, what maid
could ever love? Could he have asked Miss Manners to share happiness
with him, the case might have been otherwise; but what must be his fat