me with him face to face, hearing him speak, and not taking
him by the throat; what is the history of his pursuit of you? Is it
known to my grandfather?'

'Yes.'

'And he assists him in it?'

'No,' she answered eagerly.

'Thank Heaven!' cried Martin, 'that it leaves his mind unclouded in that
one respect!'

'I do not think,' said Mary, 'it was known to him at first. When
this man had sufficiently prepared his mind, he revealed it to him by
degrees. I think so, but I only know it from my own impression: now from
anything they told me. Then he spoke to me alone.'

'My grandfather did?' said Martin.

'Yes--spoke to me alone, and told me--'

'What the hound had said,' cried Martin. 'Don't repeat it.'

'And said I knew well what qualities he possessed; that he was
moderately rich; in good repute; and high in his favour and confidence.
But seeing me very much distressed, he said that he would not control
or force my inclinations, but would content himself with telling me the
fact. He would not pain me by dwelling on it, or reverting to it; nor
has he ever done so since, but has truly kept his word.'

'The man himself?--' asked Martin.

'He has had few opportunities of pursuing his suit. I have never walked
out alone, or remained alone an instant in his presence. Dear Martin, I
must tell you,' she continued, 'that the kindness of your grandfather
to me remains unchanged. I am his companion still. An indescribable
tenderness and compassion seem to have mingled themselves with his old
regard; and if I were his only child, I could not have a gentler father.
What former fancy or old habit survives in this, when his heart has
turned so cold to you, is a mystery I cannot penetrate; but it has been,
and it is, a happiness to me, that I remained true to him; that if he
should wake from his delusion, even at the point of death, I am here,
love, to recall you to his thoughts.'

Martin looked with admiration on her glowing face, and pressed his lips
to hers.

'I have sometimes heard, and read,' she said, 'that those whose powers
had been enfeebled long ago, and whose lives had faded, as it were, into
a dream, have been known to rouse themselves before death, and inquire
for familiar faces once very dear to them; but forgotten, unrecognized,
hated even, in the meantime. Think, if with his old impressions of this
man, he should suddenly resume his former self, and find in him his only
friend!'

'I would not urge you to a