should come while I was away?"

"We part here, then?"

She nodded in assent, received the fee for her services without
acknowledgment, and saw us depart on our breakneck expedition with an
indifference equalled only by the nonchalance with which she had
admitted us on our arrival. The moment our backs were turned, she
resumed her play.

After exploring the successive stories of the tower in safety, we
descended by way of the anteroom, but the bird and its pursuer had both
of them flown. We passed through a door she had previously pointed out,
and gained the garden as surreptitiously as did Dorothy Vernon, of old,
when, according to the tradition, she escaped through this same doorway
on the night of her sister's nuptials, and eloped with her lover, Mr.
(afterwards Sir John) Manners, who had long been haunting the
neighboring forest as an outlaw. We strolled through the ancient garden,
all ivied and moss-grown, admired the stone balustrade, which,
time-stained and mouldy, is still the student's favorite bit of
architecture, and at last made our way back to the farm-house,--I am
sure I do not remember how, for we were as deficient in a guide as on
our first attempt at entrance. Whether another party arrived while we
were in the tower, and were engrossing her attention,--whether she was
engaged in the more agreeable office of coquetting with the young
artist, or was still chasing the swallow from room to room of the
manor-house, I do not know. We saw her no more. She had barely
condescended to let us in, and now left us to find our way out as we
could.

She cared nothing at all for us. All the interest we had manifested in
her (and it was considerable) had failed to awaken any emotion. We were
a stereotyped feature of the old hall; and the old hall, though she had
sprung from its root, and her life had been nourished by its strength,
was no part of herself,--was her antipathy. Still I never think of the
mansion, with all the romantic associations which cluster around it, but
the image of this child comes to break my reverie, as she did on the day
when it was first indulged.

So we go to visit some royal oak, and bring away, as a memento, the
daisy which blooms at its foot; so we stand, as the reward of toil and
fatigue, upon an Alpine glacier, and the trophy and pledge of our visit
are the forget-me-not that grew on its margin. Thus youth and beauty
ever press on the footsteps of old age, and youth and beauty bear aw