be the end of sin and of folly? And
when did happiness come of disobedience?--And when did sound sleep visit
a bloody pillow? That is what I say to myself, Tyrrel, and that is what
you must learn to say too, and then you will bear your burden as
cheerfully as I endure mine. If we have no more than our deserts, why
should we complain?--You are shedding tears, I think--Is not that
childish?--They say it is a relief--if so, weep on, and I will look
another way."

Tyrrel walked on by the pony's side, in vain endeavouring to compose
himself so as to reply.

"Poor Tyrrel," said Clara, after she had remained silent for some
time--"Poor Frank Tyrrel!--Perhaps you will say in your turn, Poor
Clara--but I am not so poor in spirit as you--the blast may bend, but it
shall never break me."

There was another long pause; for Tyrrel was unable to determine with
himself in what strain he could address the unfortunate young lady,
without awakening recollections equally painful to her feelings, and
dangerous, when her precarious state of health was considered. At length
she herself proceeded:--

"What needs all this, Tyrrel?--and indeed, why came you here?--Why did I
find you but now brawling and quarrelling among the loudest of the
brawlers and quarrellers of yonder idle and dissipated debauchees?--You
were used to have more temper--more sense. Another person--ay, another
that you and I once knew--he might have committed such a folly, and he
would have acted perhaps in character.--But you, who pretend to
wisdom--for shame, for shame!--And indeed, when we talk of that, what
wisdom was there in coming hither at all?--or what good purpose can your
remaining here serve?--Surely you need not come, either to renew your
own unhappiness or to augment mine?"

"To augment yours--God forbid!" answered Tyrrel. "No--I came hither only
because, after so many years of wandering, I longed to revisit the spot
where all my hopes lay buried."

"Ay--buried is the word," she replied, "crushed down and buried when
they budded fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel; and there are times
when, Heaven help me! I can think of little else.--Look at me--you
remember what I was--see what grief and solitude have made me."

She flung back the veil which surrounded her riding-hat, and which had
hitherto hid her face. It was the same countenance which he had formerly
known in all the bloom of early beauty; but though the beauty remained,
the bloom was fled for e