eople increased, and at last there
was no one so old or so weak as not to have come to seek fresh life and
health and strength at this place. The concourse became so great, that
they were obliged, except at the hours of divine service, to keep the
church and chapel closed.

Edward did not venture to look at her again; he lived on mechanically;
he seemed to have no tears left, and to be incapable of any further
suffering; his power of taking interest in what was going on diminished
every day; his appetite gradually failed. The only refreshment which did
him any good was what he drank out of the glass, which to him, indeed,
had been but an untrue prophet. He continued to gaze at the intertwining
initials, and the earnest cheerfulness of his expression seemed to
signify that he still hoped to be united with her at last. And as every
little circumstance combines to favor the fortunate, and every accident
contributes to elate him; so do the most trifling occurrences love to
unite to crush and overwhelm the unhappy. One day, as Edward raised the
beloved glass to his lips, he put it down and thrust it from him with a
shudder. It was the same and not the same. He missed a little private
mark upon it. The valet was questioned, and had to confess that the real
glass had not long since been broken, and that one like it belonging to
the same set had been substituted in its place.

Edward could not be angry. His destiny had spoken out with sufficient
clearness in the fact, and how should he be affected by the shadow? and
yet it touched him deeply. He seemed now to dislike drinking, and
thenceforward purposely to abstain from food and from speaking.

But from time to time a sort of restlessness came over him; he would
desire to eat and drink something, and would begin again to speak. "Ah!"
he said, one day to the Major, who now seldom left his side, "how
unhappy I am that all my efforts are but imitations ever, and false and
fruitless. What was blessedness to her, is pain to me; and yet for the
sake of this blessedness I am forced to take this pain upon myself. I
must go after her; follow her by the same road. But my nature and my
promise hold me back. It is a terrible difficulty, indeed, to imitate
the inimitable. I feel clearly, my dear friend, that genius is required
for everything; for martyrdom as well as the rest."

What shall we say of the endeavors which in this hopeless condition were
made for him? His wife, his friends,