the Gate only to look more ardently for the Penetralia.

He dressed himself, and was relieved to find that Merton had joined a
party of his countrymen on an excursion to Ischia. He spent the heat of
noon in thoughtful solitude, and gradually the image of Isabel returned
to his heart. It was a holy--for it was a human--image; he had resigned
her, and he repented. The light of day served, if not to dissipate, at
least to sober, the turbulence and fervor of the preceding night. But
was it indeed too late to retract his resolve? "Too late!" terrible
words! Of what do we not repent, when the Ghost of the Deed returns to
us to say, "Thou hast no recall?"

He started impatiently from his seat, seized his hat and sword, and
strode with rapid steps to the humble abode of the actress.

The distance was considerable, and the air oppressive. Glyndon arrived
at the door breathless and heated. he knocked, no answer came; he
lifted the latch and entered. No sound, no sight of life, met his ear
and eye. In the front chamber, on a table, lay the guitar of the
actress and some manuscript parts in plays. He paused, and summoning
courage, tapped at the door which seemed to lead into the inner
apartment. The door was ajar; and hearing no sound within, he pushed it
open. It was the sleeping chamber of the young actress,--that holiest
ground to a lover. And well did the place become the presiding deity:
none of the tawdry finery of the Profession was visible on the one hand,
none of the slovenly disorder common to the humbler classes of the South
on the other. All was pure and simple; even the ornaments were those of
an innocent refinement,--a few books placed carefully on shelves, a few
half-faded flowers in an earthen vase which was modelled and painted in
the Etruscan fashion. The sunlight streamed over the snowy draperies of