For some days Mary held her peace, remembering Steadman's vehement
entreaty that she should not speak of this subject to her grandmother.
She was silent, but the image of the old man haunted her at all times
and seasons. She saw him even in her dreams--those happy dreams of the
girl who loves and is beloved, and before whom the pathway of the future
smiles like a vision of Paradise. She heard him calling to her with a
piteous cry of distress, and on waking from this troubled dream she
fancied that he must be dying, and that this sound in her dreams was one
of those ghostly warnings which give notice of death. She was so unhappy
about him, altogether so distressed at being compelled to break her
word, that she could not prevent her thoughts from dwelling upon him,
not even after she had poured out all her trouble to John Hammond in a
long letter, in which her garden adventures and her little skirmish with
Steadman were graphically described.

To her intense discomforture Hammond replied that he thoroughly approved
of Steadman's conduct in the matter. However agreeable Mary's society
might be to the lunatic, Mary's life was far too precious to be put
within the possibility of peril by any such _tête-à-têtes_. If the
person was the same old man whom Hammond had seen on the Fell, he was a
most sinister-looking creature, of whom any evil act might be fairly
anticipated. In a word Mr. Hammond took Steadman's view of the matter,
and entreated his dearest Mary to be careful, and not to allow her warm
heart to place her in circumstances of peril.

This was most disappointing to Mary, who expected her lover to agree
with her upon every point; and if he had been at Fellside the
difference of opinion might have given rise to their first quarrel. But
as she had a few hours' leisure for reflection before the post went out,