attached to Mr. Wright's study, longing for a little quiet
that would enable me to realize all the blessedness of my lot. With
childish glee I toyed with my title,--with my new name,--Maurice
Carlyle's wife--Evelyn Carlyle! How pretty it sounded,--how holy it
seemed! My future was as brilliant as that vast enchanted hall into
which poor Nouronihar was enticed through her insane love for Vathek,
and, like hers, my illusion was dispelled by a decree that strangled
hope in my heart, and enveloped it in flames."

Here the flood of melancholy memories drowned her words, and, crossing
her arms on the stone balustrade, she sat silent and moody.

In the dusky, crepuscular light, Dr. Grey could no longer discern the
emotions that printed themselves so legibly on her countenance; but
the outline of her face, and the listless, hopeless droop of her
figure, curved between him and the dun waste of waters.

Overhead a few dim, hazy stars shivered on the ragged skirts of
trailing gray clouds, and the ceaseless rustle of the shuddering
poplars formed a mournful accompaniment to the muttering of the ocean,
whose weary waves were sobbing themselves to rest, like scourged but
unconquered children.

"I thank you for your patience, Dr. Grey. You forbear to hurry me,
even as you would shrink from rudely jostling or pushing forward the
mattock which slowly digs into a grave,--removing human mould and
crumbling coffin, searching for the skeleton beneath. Exhuming human
bones is melancholy work, but sadder still is the mission of one who
disinters the ashes of a woman's love, hope, and faith. Across the
centre of Mr. Wright's hot-house ran a light trellis of fine
lattice-work cut into an arch and covered with the dense luxuriant
foliage of the bignonia trained over it. Behind this screen I had
ensconced my happy self, and sat idly bruising the leaves of a rose
geranium that chanced to be near me, when my blissful reverie was
interrupted by the sound of that voice which had stolen my heart, my
reason, my common sense. Believing that he had missed and was
searching for his bride, I rose and peeped through the glossy leaves
of the clambering vine that divided us. Not four feet distant stood my
husband of an hour, with his arms clasped fondly around Edith, who, in
a broken, passionate voice, denounced his perfidy and heartlessness.
Vehemently he pleaded for an opportunity to exculpate himself, and
there, tearful and sobbing, with her head on hi