been once green with paint, but
were now green with damp and vegetable mould, a strange feeling, half
of curiosity and half of terror, came over me, mixed with that
singular fascination of which I have spoken, which seemed to deny me
any rest until I should have searched out the mystery--for I felt sure
that mystery there was--connected with that summer-house, so desolate
and so fast lapsing into ruin, while the hedges and gardens within
appeared well cared for, and in trim cultivation.

I well remember the first time I beheld that lonely and deserted
building. It was near sunset, on as lovely a summer evening as ever
shed its soft light on the earth; the air was breathless; the sky
cloudless; thousands of swallows were upon the wing, some skimming the
limpid surface of those old ditches, others gliding on balanced
pinions so far aloft in the darkening firmament that the eye could
barely discern them.

The nightingales were warbling their rich, melancholy notes from every
brake and thicket; the bats had come forth and were flitting to and
fro on their leathern wings under the dark trees; but the brilliant
dragon-flies, and all the painted tribe of butterflies had vanished
already, and another race, the insects of the night, had taken their
places.

The rich scent of the new-mown hay loaded the air with fragrance, and
vied with the odors of the eglantine and honeysuckle, which, increased
by the falling dew, steamed up like incense to the evening skies.

I was alone, and thoughtful; for the time although sweet and
delicious, had nothing in it gay or joyous; the lane along which I was
strolling was steeped in the fast increasing shadows, for although the
air aloft was full of sunshine, and the topmost leaves of the tall
ashes shimmered like gold in the late rays, not a single beam
penetrated the thick hedgerows, or fell upon the sandy horse-road. The
water in the deep ditches looked as black as night, and the plunge of
the frogs into their cool recesses startled the ear amid the solitude
and stillness of the place.

It was one of those evenings, in a word, which calls up, we know not
why, a train of thought not altogether sad, nor wholly tender, but
calm and meditative and averse to action. I had been wandering along
thus for nearly an hour, musing deeply all the while, yet perfectly
unconscious that I was musing, much more what was the subject of my
meditations, when coming suddenly to the turn of the lane, the old