passed. They conversed slowly and at intervals. That the theme interested
both was clear from the earnest tone of the one, and the attention
rendered by the other. It was connected too in some way with the sea:
for, from time to time, the speaker paused and eyed wistfully the
slumbering monster at his feet; and more than once the ejaculation was
audible--"the secret is buried there!"

[Footnote B: The Denne.]

"And you believe this?" said the listener, half incredulously, half
respectfully, when his elderly companion ceased.

"I do--firmly."

The other smiled, and then continued in a lower tone--

"All delusion! the result of a heated fancy--all delusion from beginning
to end!"

"What is delusion?" said a tall military-looking figure, striding up and
joining the group. "We all have, at one period or other of our lives, to
battle with delusion and succumb to it. Now. sir," turning to the elder
gentleman (his name was Ancelot) and making a courteous bow--"pray favor
me with your case and symptoms."

The party addressed looked nettled, and replied--

"Mine was no delusion; it was a stern and solemn reality."

"Well, give it what name you please," returned his companion, "only let
Major Newburgh hear the tale as you narrated it to me."

"To be again discredited? Excuse me, Trevor, no."

"Oh! but," interposed the major, "I'm of a very confiding disposition. I
believe everything and every body. The more extraordinary the narrative,
the more faith am I inclined to place in it. Trevor, there, as we all
know," added he, laughingly, "has a twist. He's a 'total abstinence'
man--a homeopathic man--a Benthamite, and secretly favors Mesmerism. With
such abounding faith upon some points, we will allow him to be somewhat
skeptical upon others. Come, your narrative."

"At the sober age of two-and-forty, a period when the season of delusion
is pretty well over," said Mr. Ancelot, pointedly, "I found myself in
charge of a notorious fishing-village on the coast of Lincolnshire. It
was famous, or rather infamous, for the smuggling carried on in its
creeks, and for the vigilant and relentless wreckers which it numbered in
its hovels. 'Rough materials!' said the bishop, Dr. Prettyman, when I
waited upon him to be licensed to the curacy--rough materials to work
upon; but by care and diligence, Mr. Ancelot, wondrous changes may be
effected. Your predecessor, a feeble-minded man, gave but a sorry account
of your flock; but un