er what I have read of the
Grierson horrors."

The old man turned upon me a strange, wild look, rendered grotesque, if
not ludicrous, by the effect of the glassful he had at that moment taken
at my request. "Ah! you have heard--yet surely it is impossible. Was it
not all between me and master? Who other could know of it? And the book!
Oh, it was never found."

"I know nothing of these mysteries," replied I, not really understanding
him, yet amazed at his appearance, as with long grey locks, shaking by
his excitement, he kept staring at me in the dim light--for the candle
was now out, and the fire burned red and dull. A little more conjuring
would have brought all these pictures out into the room, and even as it
was, I was beginning to transform my companion's shadow, as it lay on
the arm chair behind him, into the very person itself of Lillah Bernard.

"Doctor," he said, gravely, "you must know the dark secret of this
apartment."

"Nothing," replied I. "Go on; you have roused my curiosity. I know
nothing of the Bernard's but what you have told me, and I request to
know more. Go on, Francis."

He was not satisfied; continued to search, so far as he could, my face;
but I wore him out.

"It's no use denying it, sir," he at length said, "but take your own
way now;" then heaving a deep sigh, which might have been heard at the
farthest end of the large room, so silent was all, he went on: "'Twas
not to last, sir, all that happiness among those three, and little Caleb
was the centre by which they were all joined. There's an enemy abroad to
such heart-unions--unseen by all but God, who views him with the eye of
anger, but lets him have his way for a season, and why we know it. Such
little Edens grow up here and there among roses, as if to remind us of
the one paradise which has gone, and to make us hope for the other which
is to come; the old tragedy is wrought within a circuit of a few feet
and the reach of a few hearts. Oh! the old fiend triumphs with the old
laugh on his dark cheek. Yes, sir, it is even so; there is nothing new
with the devil, nor nothing old, nor will there be till his neck is
fastened; but in this meanwhile of days and years of time, oh! how the
soul pants as it looks through the clouds of sorrow which rise under his
dark wing, and can see no light, save through the deep grave where lie
those once beautiful things in corruption. 'Twas the beauty did it all,
sir; the enemy cannot stand that lovelines