hand kindly. She seemed to rally at the sight of him; the nurse was
dismissed, they were left alone. Before morning, the spirit had left
that humble clay; and the mists of dawn were heavy on the grass as
Maltravers returned home. There were then on his countenance the traces
of recent and strong emotion, and his step was elastic, and his cheek
flushed. Hope once more broke within him, but mingled with doubt, and
faintly combated by reason. In another hour Maltravers was on his way to
Brook-Green. Impatient, restless, fevered, he urged on the horses, he
sowed the road with gold; and at length the wheels stopped before the
door of the village inn. He descended, asked the way to the curate's
house; and crossing the burial-ground, and passing under the shadow of
the old yew-tree, entered Aubrey's garden. The curate was at home, and
the conference that ensued was of deep and breathless interest to the
visitor.

It is now time to place before the reader, in due order and connection,
the incidents of that story, the knowledge of which, at that period,
broke in detached and fragmentary portions on Maltravers.



CHAPTER IV.

I CANNA chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father still,
Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde,
My luve with him maun still abyde;
In weil or wae, whaireir he gae,
Mine heart can neir depart him frae.
Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament.