who had been, on a former occasion, reported by the servants
to have lain and slept under her window for an entire night, and never
left his position till the morning sun exposed the doting lover to the
wondering eyes of the domestics, who had never yet felt a love that kept
them awake for more than a dreamy hour at cockcrow. As she gazed and
hesitated, her hour was passing, and her lover would be among the
grave-stones, waiting for her. Her anxiety grew intense; she feared to
go, but shook at the thoughts of disappointing _him_; never dreaming (so
whispered love) of herself. The figure still stood as stationary as a
grave-stone, while her soul was agitated like the restless spirit that
hovers over it, sighing for the hour of departure to the regions of
ether. She could bear no longer; the projection which concealed him
would conceal her; she plied the furtive steps of love; and crossing,
like a fairy on the moonlit green knowe, the rising lawn, was forth
among the towering oaks in as little time as the shadow of a passing
cloud would have taken to trail its dingy traces over the shining lee.

In a short time she arrived at the churchyard, and saw, through the
interstices of the surrounding trees, the Heir of Kirkpatrick sitting on
a green tumulus, the grave of one who had perhaps loved as they now
loved, waiting for her who was beyond the trysting-hour. In a moment
longer she was in his arms, and the stillness of the dead was invaded by
the stifled sighs, the burning whispers, the rustling pressure of
ardent, impatient lovers. The rising graves, and the mossy tomb-stones,
and the white scattered bones that had escaped the sexton's eye, and
glittered in the moonbeams, were equally neglected and overlooked; and
no fear of fairy, ghost, or gnome, or gowl, entered where Love left no
room but for his own engrossing sacrifices. The simple monument of love
of "Mary of the Le'," that rose by their side, had often brought the
tears to Helen's eyes; but Mary of the Lee was now forgotten. "There is
a time and a place for all things" but love, whose rule is general over
the flowery lee and the green grave, the mid-day hour and the dreary
key-stone of night's black arch.

"What kept ye, sweet Helen, love?" whispered Kirkpatrick in her ear, as
she lay entranced in love's dream on his bosom.

"By that question, good Adam," answered she, according to the mode of
familiar address of her day, "there hangs a secret that oppresses your