ly an island amidst
the blue ripples; and the island, if it was not as grand as Staffa nor
as green as Ulva, was nevertheless an island, and it was pleasant enough
to look at, with its bushes, and boats, and white swans. And then he
bethought him of his first walks by the side of this little lake--when
Oscar was the only creature in London he had to concern himself
with--when each new day was only a brighter holiday than its
predecessor--when he was of opinion that London was the happiest and
most beautiful place in the world; and of that bright morning, too, when
he walked through the empty streets at dawn, and came to the peacefully
flowing river.

These idle meditations were suddenly interrupted. Away along the bank
of the lake his keen eye could make out a figure, which, even at that
distance, seemed so much to resemble one he knew, that his heart began
to beat quick. Then the dress--all of black, with a white hat and white
gloves; was not that of the simplicity that had always so great an
attraction for her? And he knew that she was singularly fond of
Kensington Gardens; and might she not be going thither for a stroll
before going back to the Piccadilly Theater? He hastened his steps. He
soon began to gain on the stranger; and the nearer he got the more it
seemed to him that he recognized the graceful walk and carriage of this
slender woman. She passed under the archway of the bridge. When she had
emerged from the shadow, she paused for a moment or two to look at the
ducks on the lake; and this arch of shadow seemed to frame a beautiful
sunlit picture--the single figure against a background of green bushes.
And if this were indeed she, how splendid the world would all become in
a moment! In his eagerness of anticipation he forgot his fear. What
would she say? Was he to hear her laugh once more, and take her hand?
Alas! When he got close enough to make sure, he found that his beautiful
figure belonged to a somewhat pretty, middle-aged lady, who had brought
a bag of scraps with her to feed the ducks. The world grew empty again.
He passed on, in a sort of dream. He only knew he was in Kensington
Gardens; and that once or twice he had walked with her down those broad
alleys in the happy summer-time of flowers, and sunshine, and the scent
of limes. Now there was a pale blue mist in the open glades; and a
gloomy purple instead of the brilliant green of the trees; and the cold
wind that came across rustled the masses of b