dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her,
and thus she moves forward towards that summer-house which probably to
her was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure affection,
which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about whose fate there now
hung so great a mystery.

Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has the
strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppressions to which it has
been subjected? Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the
queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that
are not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought,
and, perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of
mind she would have shunned.

[Illustration]

Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her
for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had
so recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a
supposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and we
are certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even for a
few brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst,
and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much commended had
lost its power of rational reflection. No; thank Heaven, such is not the
case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong influence of
some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which have
no home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forth
from her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved,
and heard the noblest declaration of truth and constancy that ever
flowed from human lips.

Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so
strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely,
toward that summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her lay
crouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir Francis
Varney. He who stood between her and her heart's best joy; he who had
destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest
affections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than the
blessings they should have been to her.

Oh! could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with
what an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to the
shelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protection
from the fearful