accordant with those of his own mind. Shelves of ancient tomes, darkened
by time, and upon which the dust of years lay sleeping--dark oaken
cabinets, filled with piles of deeds and papers, among which the nimble
spiders were crawling--and, from the dusky walls, several stark, pale
ancestors, looking down coldly from their tarnished frames. An hour, and
another hour passed--and still Marston paced this melancholy chamber, a
prey to his own fell passions and dark thoughts. He was not a
superstitious man, but, in the visions which haunted him, perhaps, was
something which made him unusually excitable--for, he experienced a chill
of absolute horror, as, standing at the farther end of the room, with his
face turned towards the entrance, he beheld the door noiselessly and
slowly pushed open, by a pale, thin hand, and a figure dressed in a loose
white robe, glide softly in. He stood for some seconds gazing upon this
apparition, as it moved hesitatingly towards him from the dusky extremity
of the large apartment, before he perceived that the form was that of
Mrs. Marston.

"Hey, ha!--Mrs. Marston--what on earth has called you hither?" he asked,
sternly. "You ought to have been at rest an hour ago; get to your
chamber, and leave me, I have business to attend to."

"Now, dear Richard, you must forgive me," she said, drawing near, and
looking up into his haggard face with a sweet and touching look of
timidity and love; "I could not rest until I saw you again; your looks
have been all this night so unlike yourself; so strange and terrible,
that I am afraid some great misfortune threatens you, which you fear to
tell me of."

"My looks! Why, curse it, must I give an account of my looks?" replied
Marston, at once disconcerted and wrathful. "Misfortune! What misfortune