Allan had prospects in life-might, in time, have married into any of the first families in Hertfordshire-but Rosamund Gray, humbled though she was, and put to shame, had yet a charm for him— and he would have been content to share his fortunes with her yet, if Rosamund would have lived ́ to be his companion.

But this was not to be-and the girl soon after died. She expired in the arms of Elinor-quiet, gentle, as she lived-thankful, that she died not among strangers-and expressing by signs, rather than words, a gratitude for the most trifling services, the common offices of humanity. She died uncomplaining; and this young maid, this untaught Rosamund, might have given a lesson to the grave philosopher in death.

CHAPTER X.

I was but a boy when these events took place. All the village remember the story, and tell of Rosamund Gray, and old blind Margaret.

I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous night, and set out for Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were commonly known-I heard not

of them and it was four months before I received a letter from Allan.

"His heart," he told me 66 was gone from him -for his sister had died of a frenzy fever!”—not a word of Rosamund in the letter-I was left to collect her story from sources which may one day be explained.

I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I could gain no information, whether he were dead or living.

I passed the cottage. I did not dare to look that way, or to inquire who lived there.-A little dog, that had been Rosamund's, was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad, whose mind had suddenly gone from him-I stared vacantly around me, like one alienated from common perceptions.

But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually weakened, as I mingled in the business of life. It is now ten years since these events took place, and I sometimes think of them as unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to mebut there are times, when Allan and his sister, Margaret and her grand-daughter, appear like personages of a dream-an idle dream.

seem

CHAPTER XI.

STRANGE things have happened unto me-I scarce awake-but I will recollect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what has befallen me in the few last weeks.

Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford.

A month or two ago I had been busying myself in drawing up the above narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had forced my mind to dwell upon facts, which had begun to fade from it-the memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid-I felt a strong desire to revisit the scenes of my native village—of the young loves of Rosamund and her Clare.

A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk-I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon-after a slight breakfast at my inn-where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me

again (old Thomas Billet-he has often made angle rods for me when a child)-I rambled over all my accustomed haunts.

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bed-chamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood-I felt like a childI prayed like one-it seemed as though old times were to return again-I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew-but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun, when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.

I visited, by turns, every chamber-they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold-I touched the keys-I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the musicblended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful-I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.

I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house-we

called it the Wilderness. A well-known form was missing, that used to meet me in this place-it was thine, Ben Moxam-the kindest, gentlest, politest, of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature, thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy goodnatured face. But there is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam-that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir trees.-I remember them sweeping to the ground.

I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place-its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which have accompanied me to maturer years.

In this Wilderness I found myself after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood-the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon—all was as I had left it-my heart softened at the sightit seemed, as though my character had been suffering a change, since I forsook these shades.