"And its long melody shall sing the bliss of our lifetime," said Adam
Forrester.

"Ye must build no Temple here!" murmured their dismal companion.

And there again was the old lunatic, standing just on the spot where
they meant to rear their lightsome dome, and looking like the embodied
symbol of some great woe, that, in forgotten days, had happened there.
And, alas! there had been woe, nor that alone. A young man, more than
a hundred years before, had lured hither a girl that loved him, and on
this spot had murdered her, and washed his bloody hands in the stream
which sung so merrily. And ever since, the victim's death-shrieks were
often heard to echo between the cliffs.

"And see!" cried old Gascoigne, "is the stream yet pure from the stain
of the murderer's hands?"

"Methinks it has a tinge of blood," faintly answered the Lily; and
being as slight as the gossamer, she trembled and clung to her lover's
arm, whispering, "let us flee from this dreadful vale!"

"Come, then," said Adam Forrester, as cheerily as he could; "we shall
soon find a happier spot."

They set forth again, young Pilgrims on that quest which millions--
which every child of Earth--has tried in turn. And were the Lily and
her lover to be more fortunate than all those millions? For a long
time, it seemed not so. The dismal shape of the old lunatic still
glided behind them; and for every spot that looked lovely in their