tious was in the severe exercise of the faculties
most opposed to Superstition,--in the culture of pure reasoning, in the
science of absolute fact. Accordingly, I placed before me the very book
which Julius Faber had advised me to burn; I forced all my powers of
mind to go again over the passages which contained the doctrines that
his admonition had censured; and before daybreak, I had stated the
substance of his argument, and the logical reply to it, in an elaborate
addition to my chapter on "Sentimental Philosophers." While thus
rejecting the purport of his parting counsels, I embodied in another
portion of my work his views on my own "illusions;" and as here my
commonsense was in concord with his, I disposed of all my own previous
doubts in an addition to my favourite chapter "On the Cheats of the
Imagination." And when the pen dropped from my hand, and the day-star
gleamed through the window, my heart escaped from the labour of my mind,
and flew back to the image of Lilian. The pride of the philosopher died
out of me, the sorrow of the man reigned supreme, and I shrank from the
coming of the sun, despondent.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

Not till the law had completed its proceedings, and satisfied the public
mind as to the murder of Sir Philip Derval, were the remains of the
deceased consigned to the family mausoleum. The funeral was, as may be
supposed, strictly private, and when it was over, the excitement caused
by an event so tragical and singular subsided. New topics engaged the
public talk, and--in my presence, at least--the delicate consideration
due to one whose name had been so painfully mixed up in the dismal
story forbore a topic which I could not be expected to hear without
distressful emotion. Mrs. Ashleigh I saw frequently at my own house;
she honestly confessed that Lilian had not shown that grief at the
cancelling of our engagement which would alone justify Mrs. Ashleigh in
asking me again to see her daughter, and retract my conclusions against
our union. She said that Lilian was quiet, not uncheerful, never spoke
of me nor of Margrave, but seemed absent and pre-occupied as before,
taking pleasure in nothing that had been wont to please her; not in
music, nor books, nor that tranquil pastime which women call work, and
in which they find excuse to meditate, in idleness, their own fancies.
She rarely stirred out, even in the garden; when she did, her eyes
seemed to avoid the house in which Margrave had lod