That morning, on going my round, my carriage passed by another drawn up to the pavement, and I recognized the figure of Margrave standing beside the vehicle, and talking to some one seated within it. I looked back, as my own carriage whirled rapidly by, and saw with uneasiness and alarm that it was Richard Strahan to whom Margrave was thus familiarly addressing himself. How had the two made acquaintance? Was it not an outrage on Sir Philip Derval's memory, that the heir he had selected should be thus apparently intimate with the man whom he had so sternly denounced? I became still more impatient to read the memoir: in all probability it would give such explanations with respect to Margrave's antecedents, as, if not sufficing to criminate him of legal offences, would at least effectually terminate any acquaintance between Sir Philip's successor and himself. All my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels of far deeper interest even than those in which my mind had of late been so tumultuously whirled along, when, on returning home, I found a note from Mrs. Ashleigh. She and Lilian had just come back to L----, sooner than she had led me to anticipate. Lilian had not seemed quite well the last day or two, and had been anxious to return. CHAPTER XXXVII. Let me recall it--softly,--softly! Let me recall that evening spent with her!--that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a solid wall. It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun had set, the twilight was lingering still. We were in the old monastic garden,--garden so quiet, so cool, so fragrant. She was seated on a bench under the one great cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn with its little paradise of flowers. I had thrown myself on the sward at her feet; her hand so confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. I see her still,--how young, how fair, how innocent! Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English; so thoroughly the creature of our sober, homely life! The pretty delicate white robe that I touch so timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the soft colour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! She is murmuring low her answer to my trembling question. "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?"