t was visited that day;
how each love-hallowed spot bore witness to those low murmured words
which are earth's dearest music; how time wore on, as time will,
whether it bears on its resistless tide a freightage of joys or
sorrows, pleasures, or pains, until at length the last word had been
said, the last silent embrace taken; and now poor Fanny Layton stood
alone, gazing through blinding tears upon the solitary horseman who
rode swiftly away, as if another glance at the fair creature who stood
with straining gaze and pallid cheek and drooping form, would all
unman him. Was it this, or was it that in that hour he felt his own
unworthiness of the sacred trust reposed in him?

We will believe, dear reader, that whatever after influences may have
exercised dominion over his heart; however he may have been swerved
from his plighted faith by dreams of worldly ambition, or wealth, or
power; however cold policy may have up-rooted all finer feeling from
his soul, we will believe that no thoughts of treachery, no meditated
falsehood mingled with that parting embrace and blessing; that
although he had bowed at many a shrine before, and therefore could not
feel all the depth and purity of the unworldly affection which he had
won, still he did not, could not believe it possible that that
priceless love would be bartered for pomp and station, he did mean,
when he placed the white rose, plucked from the heart of Dream-dell,
in the little trembling hand which rested on his shoulder, and
murmured "Fanny, darling, ere this bud hath scarce withered, I shall
be with you again," that it should be even as he said. Alas! alas! for
the frailty of human nature!

That night poor Fanny pressed the precious rose to her quivering lip,
and sobbed herself, like a child, to sleep.

The next day wore away--the next--the next--still no tidings from the
absent one; and he had promised to write as soon as he arrived "in
town!" What could it mean?

Oh, that weary watching! The hours moved, oh, so leaden-paced and
slow! Every day the poor girl waited for the coming of the post-man;
and every day, with a pang at her heart, and tear-dimmed eyes, she saw
him pass the door. "Edward has been detained; he will come yet, I'm
sure," a fond inner voice whispered; "perhaps he has sent no letter,
because he'll be here himself so soon!" Poor Fanny! another week, and
still no letter, no tidings. "Oh! he must be ill!" she whispered,
anxiously, but never thought him