and he and I would often sit out of doors in the soft spring
mornings. We put an easy-chair with many cushions for him on the gravel
by the front door, where the warmth of the sun was reflected from the
red brick walls, and he would at times read aloud to us while we were
engaged with our crochet-work. Mr. Tennyson had just published
anonymously a first volume of poems, and the sober dignity of his verse
well suited our frame of mind at that time. The memory of those pleasant
spring mornings, my dear Edward, has not yet passed away, and I can
still smell the sweet moist scent of the violets, and see the bright
colours of the crocus-flowers in the parterres in front of us.

John's mind seemed to be gathering strength with his body. He had
apparently flung off the cloud which had overshadowed him before his
illness, and avoided entirely any reference to those unpleasant events
which had been previously so constantly in his thoughts. I had, indeed,
taken an early opportunity of telling him of my discovery of the picture
of Adrian Temple, as I thought it would tend to show him that at least
the last appearance of this ghostly form admitted of a rational
explanation. He seemed glad to hear of this, but did not exhibit the
same interest in the matter that I had expected, and allowed it at once
to drop. Whether through lack of interest, or from a lingering dislike
to revisit the spot where he was seized with illness, he did not, I
believe, once enter the picture-gallery before he left Royston.

I cannot say as much for myself. The picture of Adrian Temple exerted
a curious fascination over me, and I constantly took an opportunity of
studying it. It was, indeed, a beautiful work; and perhaps because
John's recovery gave a more cheerful tone to my thoughts, or perhaps
from the power of custom to dull even the keenest antipathies, I
gradually got to lose much of the feeling of aversion which it had at
first inspired. In time the unpleasant look grew less unpleasing, and
I noticed more the beautiful oval of the face, the brown eyes, and the
fine chiselling of the features. Sometimes, too, I felt a deep pity for
so clever a gentleman who had died young, and whose life, were it ever
so wicked, must often have been also lonely and bitter. More than once
I had been discovered by Mrs. Temple or Constance sitting looking at the
picture, and they had gently laughed at me, saying that I had fallen in
love with Adrian Temple.

One mornin