since I had heard from her, or of her. I had answered
her letter by a brief note, friendly but calm, in which no mention of
continued correspondence or further visits was made. At that hour my
bark hung on the topmost curl of a wave of fate, and I knew not on what
shoal the onward rush of the billow might hurl it; I would not then
attach her destiny to mine by the slightest thread; if doomed to split
on the rock, or run a aground on the sand-bank, I was resolved no other
vessel should share my disaster: but six weeks was a long time; and
could it be that she was still well and doing well? Were not all sages
agreed in declaring that happiness finds no climax on earth? Dared
I think that but half a street now divided me from the full cup of
contentment--the draught drawn from waters said to flow only in heaven?

I was at the door; I entered the quiet house; I mounted the stairs; the
lobby was void and still, all the doors closed; I looked for the neat
green mat; it lay duly in its place.

"Signal of hope!" I said, and advanced. "But I will be a little calmer;
I am not going to rush in, and get up a scene directly." Forcibly
staying my eager step, I paused on the mat.

"What an absolute hush! Is she in? Is anybody in?" I demanded to
myself. A little tinkle, as of cinders falling from a grate, replied;
a movement--a fire was gently stirred; and the slight rustle of life
continuing, a step paced equably backwards and forwards, backwards and
forwards, in the apartment. Fascinated, I stood, more fixedly fascinated
when a voice rewarded the attention of my strained ear--so low, so
self-addressed, I never fancied the speaker otherwise than alone;
solitude might speak thus in a desert, or in the hall of a forsaken
house.

"'And ne'er but once, my son,' he said,
'Was yon dark cavern trod;
In persecution's iron days,
When the land was left by God.
From Bewley's bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew;
And oft he stopp'd and turn'd his head,
As by fits the night-winds blew.
For trampling round by Cheviot-edge
Were heard the troopers keen;
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flash'd between,'" &c. &c.

The old Scotch ballad was partly recited, then dropt; a pause ensued;
then another strain followed, in French, of which the purport,
translated, ran as follows:--

I gave, at first, attention close;
Then interest wa