“Here I am, lying in the shade, thinking of the wrongs of others, while she, my darling, is unavenged.” He said to himself that he would go and see the place where the most barbarous murder had been done. Of all the dreams that haunted him, the most frequent was that on the borders of the lake where she had been found, she came to meet him. He walked rapidly to the spot. “I have not forgotten you, my darling,” he cried, “although my thoughts and interests had gone for a time to another. All women are dear and sacred to me for your sweet sake.” He stood for a while, the west wind whispering round him, and in imagination he went through it all again--the finding of the fair, dead body, his agony of grief when he heard the news. He remembered how he had rushed madly to Aldenmere. The white, haggard face of Sir Ronald rose before him with its haunting sorrow, its unutterable anguish. He remembered how beautiful she looked in death with flowers all round her. He remembered taking the rose from her and kissing her white lips. He remembered his own words: “I kiss these white lips again, love, and on them I swear to know no rest, no pleasure, no repose, until I have brought the man who murdered you to answer for his crime!” What of this oath he had taken? “I have done my best to keep it, yet I have failed.” His heart grew hot and heavy, as it always did when he thought of her. Fierce anger rose in him; mighty wrath against the one who had taken that sweet, fair young life. “What has made me think so much of her to-day?” he asked himself. “It is as though she had spoken to me. I pray Heaven to speed the time when I shall fulfill my vow!” He little dreamed how fatally near that time was. He turned away from this haunted spot, where his feet so often roamed, thinking he would go to Aldenmere and inquire how Hermione was. As he walked through the fragrant woodland glades his anger increased. He never felt her death so keenly as on these warm, sunshiny days, when all nature seemed to be rejoicing. It was doubly hard then to think of her lying in the cold, dark and silent grave; doubly hard then to remember that the sun would shine, the flowers bloom, the birds sing no more for her. As he drew near the hall a groom was just hastening from it, who, on seeing him, stopped short. “I was just going to The Towers, Mr. Eyrle. My lady would be pleased to see you at once, if you can come.” “I am on my way now,” he replied. “Lady Alden is well, I hope?” “She is well, but she wished me to say she is very anxious over Peter Gaspin. She wants to see you about some papers.” Mr. Eyrle walked on, thinking of Lady Pelham; of fair, dead Clarice; of the beautiful and noble Lady Hermione, until he reached Aldenmere. He met the two little children on the lawn. They sprang to meet him, asking the usual question, “When is papa coming?” He took little Harry in his arms. In after years every detail of the scene was as vivid to him as though it had happened yesterday.