“I cannot exactly say why I did not on my return speak of this beautiful appearance, nor why, with a strange mixture of hope and fear, I went again and again to the same spot that I might see her. She always came, and often in the storm and plashing rain, that never seemed to touch or to annoy her, looked sweetly at me, and silently passed on; and though she was so near to me, that once the wind lifted those light straying locks, and I felt them against my cheek, yet I never could move or speak to her. I fell ill; and when I recovered, my mother closely questioned me of the tall lady, of whom, in the height of my fever, I had so often spoken. “I cannot tell you what a weight was taken off my spirits when I learnt that this was no apparition, but a most lovely woman; not young, though she had kept her young looks,--for the grief which had broken her heart seemed to have spared her beauty. “When the rebel troops were retreating after their total defeat, a young officer, in that very wood I was so fond of, unable any longer to endure the anguish of his wounds, sunk from his horse, and laid himself down to die. He was found there by the daughter of Sir Henry Robinson, and conveyed by a trusty domestic to her father’s mansion. Sir Henry was a loyalist; but the officer’s desperate condition excited his compassion, and his many wounds spoke a language a brave man could not misunderstand. Sir Henry’s daughter with many tears pleaded for him, and promised that he should be carefully and secretly attended. And well she kept that promise,--for she waited upon him (her mother being long dead) for many weeks, and anxiously watched for the first opening of eyes, that, languid as he was, looked brightly and gratefully upon his young nurse. You may fancy, better than I can tell you, as he slowly recovered, all the moments that were spent in reading, and low-voiced singing, and gentle playing on the lute; and how many fresh flowers were brought to one whose wounded limbs would not bear him to gather them for himself; and how calmly the days glided on in the blessedness of returning health, and in that sweet silence so carefully enjoined him. I will pass by this, to speak of one day, which, brighter and pleasanter than others, did not seem more bright or more lovely than the looks of the young maiden, as she gaily spoke of ‘a little festival, which (though it must bear an unworthier name) she meant really to give, in honour of her guest’s recovery;’--‘and it is time, lady,’ said he, ‘for that guest, so tended and so honoured, to tell you his whole story, and speak to you of one who will help him to thank you--may I ask you, fair lady, to write a little note for me, which, even in these times of danger I may find some means to forward?’ To his mother, no doubt, she thought, as with light steps and a lighter heart she seated herself by his couch, and smilingly bade him dictate: but, when he said ‘_My Dear Wife_,’ and lifted up his eyes to be asked for