ly denounced? I became still more impatient to read the memoir:
in all probability it would give such explanations with respect to
Margrave's antecedents, as, if not sufficing to criminate him of legal
offences, would at least effectually terminate any acquaintance between
Sir Philip's successor and himself.

All my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels of far deeper
interest even than those in which my mind had of late been so
tumultuously whirled along, when, on returning home, I found a note from
Mrs. Ashleigh. She and Lilian had just come back to L----, sooner than
she had led me to anticipate. Lilian had not seemed quite well the last
day or two, and had been anxious to return.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Let me recall it--softly,--softly! Let me recall that evening spent
with her!--that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a
solid wall.

It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun had set, the twilight
was lingering still. We were in the old monastic garden,--garden so
quiet, so cool, so fragrant. She was seated on a bench under the one
great cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn with
its little paradise of flowers. I had thrown myself on the sward at
her feet; her hand so confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. I see her
still,--how young, how fair, how innocent!

Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English; so thoroughly the creature
of our sober, homely life! The pretty delicate white robe that I touch
so timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the
soft colour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! She is
murmuring low her answer to my trembling question.

"As well as when last we parted? Do you love me as well still?"

"There is no 'still' written here," said she, softly pressing her hand
to her heart. "Yesterday is as to-morrow in the Forever."

"Ah, Lilian! if I could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as your
own!"

"Fie! you who affect not to care for poetry!"

"That was before you went away; before I missed you from my eyes, from
my life; before I was quite conscious how precious you were to me, more
precious than common words can tell! Yes, there is one period in love
when all men are poets, however the penury of their language may belie
the luxuriance of their fancies. What would become of me if you ceased
to love me?"

"Or of me, if you could cease to love?"

"And somehow it seems to me this evening as if