As well as when last we parted? Do you love me as well still?" "There is no 'still' written here," said she, softly pressing her hand to her heart. "Yesterday is as to-morrow in the Forever." "Ah, Lilian! if I could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as your own!" "Fie! you who affect not to care for poetry!" "That was before you went away; before I missed you from my eyes, from my life; before I was quite conscious how precious you were to me, more precious than common words can tell! Yes, there is one period in love when all men are poets, however the penury of their language may belie the luxuriance of their fancies. What would become of me if you ceased to love me?" "Or of me, if you could cease to love?" "And somehow it seems to me this evening as if my heart drew nearer to you,- nearer as if for shelter." "It is sympathy," said she, with tremulous eagerness, "that sort of mysterious sympathy which I have often heard you deny or deride; for I, too, feel drawn nearer to you, as if there were a storm at hand. I was oppressed by an indescribable terror in returning home, and the moment I saw you there came a sense of protection." Her head sank on my shoulder: we were silent some mo ments; then we both rose by the same involuntary impulse, and round her slight form I twined my strong arm of man. And now we are winding slow under the lilacs and acacias that belt the lawn. Lilian has not yet heard of the murder, which forms the one topic of the town, for all tales of violence and blood affected her as they affect a fearful child. Mrs. Ashleigh, therefore, had judiciously concealed from her the letters and the journals by which the dismal news had been carried to herself. I need scarcely say that the grim subject was not broached by me. In fact, my own mind escaped from the events which had of late so perplexed and tormented it; the tranquillity of the scene, the bliss of Lilian's presence, had begun to chase away even that melancholy foreboding which had overshadowed me in the first moments of our reunion. So we came gradually to converse of the future, of the day, not far distant, when we two should be as one. We planned our bridal excursion. We would visit the scenes endeared to her by song, to me by childhood, the banks and waves of my native Windermere, our one brief holiday before life returned to labour, and hearts now so disquieted by hope and joy settled down to the calm serenity of home. As we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded to her full, rose amidst skies without a cloud. We paused to gaze on her solemn haunting beauty, as where are the lovers who have not paused to gaze? We were then on the terrace walk, which commanded a view of the town below. Before us was a parapet wall, low on the garden side, but inaccessible on the outer side, forming part of a straggling irregular street that made one of the boundaries dividing Abbey Hill from Low Town. The lamps of the thoroughfares, in many a line and row beneath us, stretched far away, obscured, here and there, by intervening roofs and tall church towers. The hum of the city came to our ears, low and mellowed into a lulling sound. It was not displeasing to be reminded that there was a world without, as close and closer we drew each to each, worlds to one another! Suddenly there carolled forth the song of a human voice,—a wild, irregular, half-savage melody, foreign, uncomprehended words, air and words not new to me. I recognized the voice and chant of Margrave. I started, and uttered an angry exclamation. "Hush!" whispered Lilian, and I felt her frame shiver within my encircling arm. "Hush! listen! Yes; I have heard that voice before last night-" "Last night! you were not here; you were more than a hundred miles away." "I heard it in a dream! Hush, hush! The song rose louder; impossible to describe its effect, in the midst of the tranquil night, chiming over the serried rooftops, and under the solitary moon. It was not like the artful song of man, for it was defective in the methodical harmony |