with his, I disposed of all my own previous doubts in an addition to my
favourite chapter "On the Cheats of the Imagination." And when the pen
dropped from my hand, and the day-star gleamed through the window, my
heart escaped from the labour of my mind, and flew back to the image of
Lilian. The pride of the philosopher died out of me, the sorrow of the
man reigned supreme, and I shrank from the coming of the sun, despondent.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

Not till the law had completed its proceedings, and satisfied the public
mind as to the murder of Sir Philip Derval, were the remains of the
deceased consigned to the family mausoleum. The funeral was, as may be
supposed, strictly private, and when it was over, the excitement caused by
an event so tragical and singular subsided. New topics engaged the public
talk, and--in my presence, at least--the delicate consideration due to one
whose name had been so painfully mixed up in the dismal story forbore a
topic which I could not be expected to hear without distressful emotion.
Mrs. Ashleigh I saw frequently at my own house; she honestly confessed
that Lilian had not shown that grief at the cancelling of our engagement
which would alone justify Mrs. Ashleigh in asking me again to see her
daughter, and retract my conclusions against our union. She said that
Lilian was quiet, not uncheerful, never spoke of me nor of Margrave, but
seemed absent and pre-occupied as before, taking pleasure in nothing that
had been wont to please her; not in music, nor books, nor that tranquil
pastime which women call work, and in which they find excuse to meditate,
in idleness, their own fancies. She rarely stirred out, even in the
garden; when she did, her eyes seemed to avoid the house in which Margrave