I shall see her if I go,--I am sure I shall," added he,
positively, as though he felt a conviction that his desire would be
accomplished.

"I would not, Clary," remonstrated Charlie. "Your health won't permit the
exertion; it is a long distance, too, you say; and, moreover, don't you
think, my dear fellow, that it is far more prudent to endeavour, if
possible, to banish her from your mind entirely. Don't permit yourself to
think about her, if you can help it. You know she is unattainable by you,
and you should make an effort to conquer your attachment."

"It is too late--too late now, Charlie," he replied, mournfully. "I shall
continue to love her as I do now until I draw my last breath. I know it is
hopeless--I know she can never be more to me than she already is; but I
cannot help loving her. Let us go; I may see her once again. Ah, Charlie,
you cannot even dream what inexpressible pleasure the merest glimpse of her
affords me! Come, let us go."

Charlie would not permit him to attempt to walk; and they procured a
carriage, in which they rode to within a short distance of the house. The
mansion of Mr. Bates appeared quite gloomy as they approached it. The
blinds were down, and no lights visible in any part of the house.

"I am afraid they are out of town," remarked Charlie, when Clarence pointed
out the house; "everything looks so dull about it. Let us cross over to the
other pavement." And they walked over to the other side of the street, and
gazed upward at the house.

"Let us sit down here," suggested Clarence,--"here, on this broad stone;
it is quite dark now, and no one will observe us."

"No, no!" remonstrated Charlie; "the stone is too damp and cold."

"Is it?" said Clarence vacantly. And taking out his handkerchief, he spread
it out, and, in spite of Charlie's dissuasions, sat down upon it.

"Charlie," said he, after gazing at the house a long time in silence, "I
have often come here and remained half the night looking at her windows.
People have passed by and stared at me as though they thought me crazy; I
was half crazy then, I think. One night I remember I came and sat here for
hours; far in the night I saw her come to the window, throw up the
casement, and look out. That was in the summer, before I went away, you
know. There she stood in the moonlight, gazing upward at the sky, so pale,
so calm and holy-looking, in her pure white dress, that I should not have
thought it strange if the heavens had op