but the old woman only laughed and shook
her aged head. I left her, grieved and apprehensive. My secret thoughts
had been discovered. How soon might they be carried to the confiding
minister and his unsuspecting daughter! What would they think of me! It
was a day of anxiety and trouble, that on which Miss Fairman returned to
the parsonage. I received my usual invitation; but I was indisposed, and
did not go. I resolved to see her only during meals, and when it was
impossible to avoid her. I would not seek her presence. Foolish effort!
It had been better to pass hours in her sight, for previous separation
made union more intense, and the passionate enjoyment of a fleeting
instant was hoarded up, and became nourishment for the livelong day.

It was a soft rich afternoon in June, and chance made me the companion
of Miss Fairman. We were alone: I had encountered her at a distance of
about a mile from the parsonage, on the sea-shore, whither I had walked
distressed in spirit, and grateful for the privilege of listening in
gloomy quietude to the soothing sounds of nature--medicinal ever. The
lady was at my side almost before I was aware of her approach. My heart
throbbed whilst she smiled upon me, sweetly as she smiled on all. Her
deep hazel eye was moist. Could it be from weeping?

"What has happened, Miss Fairman?" I asked immediately.

"Do I betray my weakness, then?" she answered. "I am sorry for it; for
dear papa tells all the villagers that no wise man weeps--and no wise
woman either, I suppose. But I cannot help it. We are but a small family
in the village, and it makes me very sad to miss the old faces one after
another, and to see old friends dropping and dropping into the silent
grave."

As she spoke the church-bell tolled, and she turned pale, and ceased. I
offered her my arm, and we walked on.

"Whom do you mourn, Miss Fairman?" I asked at length.

"A dear good friend--my best and oldest. When poor mamma was dying, she
made me over to her care. She was her nurse, and was mine for years. It
is very wrong of me to weep for her. She was good and pious, and is
blest."

The church-bell tolled again, and my companion shuddered.

"Oh! I cannot listen to that bell," she said. "I wish papa would do away
with it. What a withering sound it has! I heard it first when it was
tolling for my dear mother. It fell upon my heart like iron then, and it
falls so now."

"I cannot say that I dislike the melancholy chime. Deat