ad become to him! Could he ever forget the morning he had bathed
in those fresh waters! What lake of Italy, what heroic wave of the
midland ocean, could rival in his imagination that simple basin! He drew
near to the woods of Ducie, glowing with the setting sun. Surely there
was no twilight like the twilight of this land! The woods of Ducie are
entered. He recognised the path over which she had glided; he knelt down
and kissed that sacred earth. As he approached the pleasure grounds, he
turned off into a side path that he might not be perceived; he caught,
through a vista, a distant glimpse of the mansion. The sight of that
roof wherein he had been so happy; of that roof that contained all that
he cared for or thought of in this world, overcame him. He leant against
a tree, and hid his face.

The twilight died away, the stars stole forth, and Ferdinand ventured in
the spreading gloom of night to approach the mansion. He threw himself
upon the turf, and watched the chamber where she lived. The windows
were open, there were lights within the room, but the thin curtains were
drawn, and concealed the inmates. Happy, happy chamber! All that was
bright and fair and sweet were concentrated in those charming walls!

The curtain is withdrawn; an arm, an arm which cannot be mistaken, pulls
back the drapery. Is she coming forth? No, she does not; but he sees,
distinctly he sees her. She sits in an old chair that he had often
praised; her head rests upon her arm, her brow seems pensive; and in her
other hand she holds a volume that she scarcely appears to read. Oh! may
he gaze upon her for ever! May this celestial scene, this seraphic
hour, never pass away. Bright stars! do not fade; thou summer wind that
playest upon his brow, perfumed by her flowers, refresh him for ever;
beautiful night be for ever the canopy of a scene so sweet and still;
let existence glide away in gazing on yon delicate and tender vision!

Dreams of fantastic love: the curtain closes; a ruder hand than hers has
shut her from his sight! It has all vanished; the stars seem dim, the
autumnal air is dank and harsh; and where he had gazed on heaven, a bat
flits wild and fleet. Poor Ferdinand, unhappy Ferdinand, how dull and
depressed our brave gallant has become! Was it her father who had closed
the curtain? Could he himself, thought Ferdinand, have been observed?

Hark! a voice softer and sweeter than the night breaks upon the air.
It is the voice of his belove