ged, and her steps
the old favourite haunt by the Monks' Well. She would remain silent for
long hours together, but the silence did not appear melancholy. For
the rest, her health was more than usually good. Still Mrs. Ashleigh
persisted in her belief that, sooner or later, Lilian would return to
her former self, her former sentiments for me; and she entreated me not,
as yet, to let the world know that our engagement was broken off. "For
if," she said, with good sense, "if it should prove not to be broken
off, only suspended, and afterwards happily renewed, there will be two
stories to tell when no story be needed. Besides, I should dread the
effect on Lilian, if offensive gossips babbled to her on a matter that
would excite so much curiosity as the rupture of a union in which our
neighbours have taken so general an interest."

I had no reason to refuse acquiescence in Mrs. Ashleigh's request, but
I did not share in her hopes; I felt that the fair prospects of my life
were blasted; I could never love another, never wed another; I resigned
myself to a solitary hearth, rejoiced, at least, that Margrave had not
revisited at Mrs. Ashleigh's,--had not, indeed, reappeared in the
town. He was still staying with Strahan, who told me that his guest
had ensconced himself in Forman's old study, and amused himself with
reading--though not for long at a time--the curious old books and
manuscripts found in the library, or climbing trees like a schoolboy,
and familiarizing himself with the deer and the cattle, which would
group round him quite tame, and feed from his hand. Was this the
description of a criminal? But if Sir Philip's assertion were really
true; if the criminal were man without soul; if without soul, man would
have no conscience, never be troubled by repentance, and the vague dread
of a future world,--why, then, should not the criminal be gay despite
his crimes, as the white bear gambols as friskly after his meal on
human flesh? These questions would haunt me, despite my determination to
accept as the right solution of all marvels the construction put on my
narrative by Julius Faber.

Days passed; I saw and heard nothing of Margrave. I began half to
hope that, in the desultory and rapid changes of mood and mind which
characterized his restless nature, he had forgotten my existence.

One morning I went out early on my rounds, when I met Straban
unexpectedly.

"I was in search of you," he said, "for more than one perso