and
stumbling along down the road. It had been raining, and there was not
one star-twinkle in the sky; the only light was that of glow-worms
illuminating here and there two or three blades of grass by feeble
shining. Now and then a fire-fly made a spot of light in the blackness,
only to leave a deeper spot of blackness when he shut off his
intermittent ray. And when at last Julia found herself at the place
where the path entered the woods, the blackness ahead seemed still more
frightful. She had to grope, recognizing every deviation from the
well-beaten path by the rustle of the dead leaves which lay, even in
summer, half a foot deep upon the ground. The "fox-fire," rotting logs
glowing with a faint luminosity, startled her several times, and the
hooting-owl's shuddering bass--hoo! hoo! hoo-oo-ah-h! (like the awful
keys of the organ which "touch the spinal cord of the universe")--sent
all her blood to her heart. Under ordinary circumstances, she surely
would not have started at the rustling made by the timid hare in the
thicket near by. There was no reason why she should shiver so when a
misstep caused her to scratch her face with the thorny twigs of a wild
plum-tree. But the effort necessary to the undertaking and the agony of
the long waiting had exhausted her nervous force, and she had none left
for fortitude. So that when she arrived at Andrew's fence and felt her
way along to the gate, and heard the hoarse, thunderous baying of his
great St. Bernard dog, she was ready to faint. But a true instinct makes
such a dog gallant. It is a vile cur that will harm a lady. Julia walked
trembling up to the front-door of the castle, growled at by the huge
black beast, and when the Philosopher admitted her, some time after she
had knocked, she sank down fainting into a chair.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE SECRET STAIRWAY.

"God bless you!" said Andrew as he handed her a gourd of water to revive
her. "You are as faithful as Hero. You are another Heloise. You are as
brave as the Maid of Orleans. I will never say that women are unfaithful
again. God bless you, my daughter! You have given me faith in your sex.
I have been a lonely man; a boughless, leafless trunk, shaken by the
winter winds. But _you_ are my niece. _You_ know how to be faithful. I
am proud of you! Henceforth I call you my daughter. If you _were_ my
daughter, you would be to me all that Margaret Roper was to Sir Thomas
More." And the shaggy man of egotistic and pedant