glish family, the members of which
had thus provided for them on their return to their own country. I
inquired the name. Conceive my astonishment to find that this chateau
had been the residence of the Mowbrays. This intelligence decided me at
once--I took up my abode in the house; and a new and unexpected source
of solace and delight was opened to me, I traced the paths she had
traced; occupied the room she had occupied; tended the flowers she had
tended; and, on the golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid
waters, tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my
feet, and think how _she_ had watched them. Her presence seemed to
pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy, and, anxious to remain
unmolested, wrote home that I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on
my way to Spain."

"That account arrived," observed Small.

"One night," continued Ranulph--"'tis now the sixth since the occurrence
I am about to relate--I was seated in a bower that overlooked the river.
It had been a lovely evening--so lovely, that I lingered there, wrapped
in the heavenly contemplation of its beauties. I watched each rosy tint
reflected upon the surface of the rapid stream--now fading into
yellow--now shining silvery white. I noticed the mystic mingling of
twilight with darkness--of night with day, till the bright current on a
sudden became a black mass of waters. I could scarcely discern a
leaf--all was darkness--when lo! another change! The moon was up--a
flood of light deluged all around--the stream was dancing again in
reflected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink.

"I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting upon my hand,
when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure immediately before
me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had perceived no one
approach--had heard no footstep advance towards me, and was satisfied
that no one besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of the
figure inspired me with an undefinable awe! and, I can scarce tell why,
but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a supernatural
visitant. Without motion--without life--without substance, it seemed;
yet still the outward character of life was there. I started to my feet.
God! what did I behold? The face was turned to me--my father's face! And
what an aspect, what a look! Time can never efface that terrible
expression; it is graven upon my memory--I cannot describe it. It was
not anger-