pitied me, perhaps had reasons for being on my side, but Olive was of
marble. It is not only myself that she cannot pardon, she will never, I
know, forgive herself while my existence reminds her of what she had to
endure. When she receives the intelligence of my demise, no suspicion
will occur to her; she will not say 'He is fitly punished;' but her peace
of mind will gradually return.

"It is for this, mainly, that I sacrifice myself, but also because I
cannot endure the dishonour of a laggard in love and a recreant
bridegroom.

"So much for my motives: now to my tale.

"The day before our wedding-day had been the happiest in my life. Never
had I felt so certain of Olive's affections, never so fortunate in my
own. We parted in the soft moonlight; she, no doubt, to finish her
nuptial preparations; I, to seek my couch in the little rural inn above
the roaring waters of the Budon. {3}

"Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
Yon orange sunset fading slow;
From fringes of the faded eve
Oh, happy planet, eastward go,

I murmured, though the atmospheric conditions were not really those
described by the poet.

"Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne,
Dip forward under starry light,
And move me to my marriage morn,
And round again to--

"'River in grand order, sir,' said the voice of Robins, the keeper, who
recognised me in the moonlight. 'There's a regular monster in the
Ashweil,' he added, naming a favourite cast; 'never saw nor heard of such
a fish in the water before.'

"'Mr. Dick must catch him, Robins,' I answered; 'no fishing for me to-
morrow.'

"'No, sir,' said Robins, affably. 'Wish you joy, sir, and Miss Olive,
too. It's a pity, though! Master Dick, he throws a fine fly, but he
gets flurried with a big fish, being young. And this one is a topper.'

"With that he gave me good-night, and I went to bed, but not to sleep. I
was fevered with happiness; the past and future reeled before my wakeful
vision. I heard every clock strike; the sounds of morning were astir,
and still I could not sleep. The ceremony, for reasons connected with
our long journey to my father's place in Hampshire, was to be early--half-
past ten was the hour. I looked at my watch; it was seven of the clock,
and then I looked out of the window: it was a fine, soft grey morning,
with a south wind tossing the yellowing boughs. I got up, dressed in a
hasty way, and thought I would just take a look