room, promising to return shortly.

The morning was dull, but the afternoon broke out calm and bright.
Grace was all impatience for the ride; and Rosalind, the favourite
mare, looked more beautiful than ever in her eyes. She bounded down
the terrace at the first sound of the horses' feet, leaving Mrs
Harrington to follow.

The cavaliers were already mounted, but the child suddenly drew back.

"Come, my love," said Harrington, stretching out his hand; "look how
your pretty Rosalind bends her neck to receive you."

Seeing her terror, Mrs Harrington soothed these apprehensions, and
fear was soon forgotten amid the pleasures she anticipated.

"You are back by sunset, Harrington?"

"Fear not, _I_ shall return," replied he; and away sprang the pawing
beasts down the avenue. The lady lingered until they were out of
sight. Some unaccountable oppression weighed down her spirits; she
sought her chamber, and a heavy sob threw open the channel which
hitherto had restrained her tears.

They took the nearest path towards the Meer, losing sight of it as
they advanced into the low flat sands, scarcely above its level. When
again it opened into view its wide waveless surface lay before them,
reposing in all the sublimity of loneliness and silence. The rapture
of the child was excessive. She surveyed with delight its broad
unruffled bosom, giving back the brightness and glory of that heaven
to which it looked; to her it seemed another sky and another world,
pure and spotless as the imagination that created it.

They entered the fisherman's hut; but it was deserted. Years had
probably elapsed since the last occupation. Half-burnt turf and
bog-wood lay on the hearth; but the walls were crumbling down with
damp and decay.

The two friends were evidently disappointed. At times they looked out
anxiously, but in vain, as it might seem; for they again sat down,
silent and depressed, upon a turf-heap by the window, while the child
ran playing and gambolling towards the beach.

Harrington sat with his back to the window, when suddenly the low
murmuring noise he had heard on his former visit was repeated. He
turned pale.

"Thou art not alone; and where is the child?" or words to this purport
were uttered in a whisper. He started aside; the sound, as he thought,
was close to his ear. Molyneux heard it too.

"Shall I depart?" said he, cautiously; "I will take care to keep
within call."

"Nay," said his friend, whispering in his ear