had lodged, and her steps the old favourite haunt by the Monks' Well. She
would remain silent for long hours together, but the silence did not
appear melancholy. For the rest, her health was more than usually good.
Still Mrs. Ashleigh persisted in her belief that, sooner or later, Lilian
would return to her former self, her former sentiments for me; and she
entreated me not, as yet, to let the world know that our engagement was
broken off. "For if," she said, with good sense, "if it should prove not
to be broken off, only suspended, and afterwards happily renewed, there
will be two stories to tell when no story be needed. Besides, I should
dread the effect on Lilian, if offensive gossips babbled to her on a
matter that would excite so much curiosity as the rupture of a union in
which our neighbours have taken so general an interest."

I had no reason to refuse acquiescence in Mrs. Ashleigh's request, but I
did not share in her hopes; I felt that the fair prospects of my life
were blasted; I could never love another, never wed another; I resigned
myself to a solitary hearth, rejoiced, at least, that Margrave had not
revisited at Mrs. Ashleigh's,--had not, indeed, reappeared in the town.
He was still staying with Strahan, who told me that his guest had
ensconced himself in Forman's old study, and amused himself with
reading--though not for long at a time--the curious old books and
manuscripts found in the library, or climbing trees like a schoolboy, and
familiarizing himself with the deer and the cattle, which would group
round him quite tame, and feed from his hand. Was this the description of
a criminal? But if Sir Philip's assertion were really true; if the
criminal were man without soul; if without soul, man would have no
conscience, never be troubled by repentance, and the vague dread of a
future world,--why, then, should not the criminal be gay despite his
crimes, as the white bear gambols as friskly after his meal on human
flesh? These questions would haunt me, despite my determination to accept