scatter brightness where the deep shadows fell. But, setting forth at
the same time with this youthful pair, there was a dismal figure,
wrapped in a black velvet cloak that might have been made of a coffin
pall, and with a sombre hat, such as mourners wear, drooping its broad
brim over his heavy brows. Glancing behind them, the lovers well knew
who it was that followed, but wished from their hearts that he had
been elsewhere, as being a companion so strangely unsuited to their
joyous errand. It was a near relative of Lilies Fay, an old man by
the name of Walter Gascoigne, who had long labored under the burden of
a melancholy spirit, which was sometimes maddened into absolute
insanity, and always had a tinge of it. What a contrast between the
young pilgrims of bliss and their unbidden associate! They looked as
if moulded of Heaven's sunshine, and he of earth's gloomiest shade;
they flitted along like Hope and Joy, roaming hand in hand through
life; while his darksome figure stalked behind, a type of all the
woful influences which life could fling upon them. But the three had
not gone far, when they reached a spot that pleased the gentle Lily,
and she paused.

"What sweeter place shall we find than this?" said she. "Why should
we seek farther for the site of our Temple?"

It was indeed a delightful spot of earth, though undistinguished by
any very prominent beauties, being merely a nook in the shelter of a
hill, with the prospect of a distant lake in one direction, and of a
church-spire in another. There were vistas and pathways leading
onward and onward into the green woodlands, and vanishing away in the
glimmering shade. The Temple, if erected here, would look towards the
west: so that the lovers could shape all sorts of magnificent dreams
out of the purple, violet, and gold of the sunset sky; and few of