"I have been to him once and urged him to greet Mr. Regulus, and merely offer him the usual congratulations on his marriage, but he persistingly refused. I fear he is killing himself by this spirit-scourging vow. I never saw him look so pale and wretched as he does to-night. I dread more and more the consequences of this self-inflicted martyrdom." As I looked up in Mrs. Linwood's face, on which the light of the chandelier resplendently shone, I observed lines of care on her smooth brow, which were not there two weeks before. The engraver was doing his work delicately, secretly, but he was at work, and it was Ernest's hand that guided the steel as it left its deepening grooves. "O! that I dared to go to him!" said I; "may I, dear mother? I can but be denied. I will speak to him as a friend, coldly if it must be, but let me speak to him. He can but bid me leave him." "You too, my darling," said she, in a low, sad-toned voice, "you are wilting like a flower deprived of sunshine and dew. But go. Take this key. He locks himself within, and all you can do he will not grant admittance. The only way is to use this pass-key, which you must return to me. I must go and welcome Julian." She put the key in my hand, and turned away with a sigh. I trembled at my own audacity. I had never forced myself into his presence, for the dullness of his vow was upon me, and the hand that would have removed the icy barrier he had raised between us was numbed by its coldness. The way that led to the library was winding, sweeping by the lofty staircase, and terminating in a kind of picture gallery. Some of these were relics of the old Italian masters, and their dark, rich coloring came out in the lamp light with gloomy splendor. I had seen them a hundred times, but never had they impressed me with such lurid grandeur as now. One by one, the dark lines started on the canvas glowing with strange life, and standing out in bold, sublime relief. I hurried by them and stood in front of the library door with the key trembling in my hand. I heard no sound within. All was still as death. Perhaps, exhausted by his lonely vigils, he slept, and it would be cruel to awaken him. Perhaps he would frown on me in anger, for not respecting the sanctity of his vow. I had seen him at noon, but he did not speak or look at me; and as his mother said, he had never appeared so pale, so heart-worn, and so wretched. He was evidently ill and suffering, though to his mother's anxious inquiries he declared himself well, perfectly well. There was one thing which made me glad. The gay, mingling laughs, the sounds of social joy, of music and mirth, came so softened through the long winding avenue, that they broke against the library in a soft, murmuring wave that could not be heard within.