Having sent the murderers to Exeter gaol to be tried for their lives at the assizes, which were to commence in a day or two, and made whatever arrangements the duties of the service required, Fitz-Ullin set out for Lodore, whither, according to instructions received from Mr. Jackson, he gave orders to have the body of Henry conveyed. So contradictory and unsearchable are often the movements of the human heart, that, melancholy as were these duties, it is certain that our hero performed them with an activity and energy of spirit, to which he had long been a stranger. Whether it was, that tired of his self-imposed banishment, he was glad of even this mournful excuse, to renew the affectionate intercourse of early life with a family so long and so justly regarded, by offering his services on the present occasion, and giving his necessary assistance in prosecuting the murderers to conviction; or, whether any other, and more mysterious springs of thought and feeling were set in motion, it would be difficult to determine. However this was, in a few days after his landing, he was to be seen, with a countenance of seriousness, certainly, but not of despair, leaning back in a travelling carriage which rolled along the north road as fast as the united strength of four good horses could give the impetus of motion to its wheels. He arrived at Keswick, drove through it, and shortly after a turning in the road presented Lodore House to his view. CHAPTER XL. “Lovely pass’d the light of joy o’er thy face, Comala! But there—like the faint beam of The show’r, ’tis fled!” With an almost involuntary movement he put an arm out the window, opened the door himself, kicked the steps half down, leaped over them, and, either without waiting for, or without remembering Arthur, crossed the lawn on foot and alone; while the carriage, its door flapping, its steps hanging, and its master missing, took the usual course, and drove up to the principal entrance. No sooner had our hero passed the threshold of the half-open glass door, which had thus attracted him, than he beheld Julia. She was alone, dressed, of course, in mourning, and seated at a table over which she stooped, in the act of writing or drawing. He stood; she looked up. An expression of pleasure sparkled for a moment in her eyes. Julia, in the hurry of the moment, pronounced the name of Edmund. She had not seen Fitz-Ullin at Lodore since other names and titles had been added to that which was associated in her feelings, with the scenes and remembrances of childhood. He too pronounced her name, as, with visible agitation, he took the hand of welcome she held out. After thus naming each other, however, neither spoke again; while he examined her countenance with an earnestness, which at first pained, and at last offended her.