Day after day lagged on—night after night crept on, in cloud or in starlight, over her sleepless couch; and she waxed paler every day, and thinner, and more ghost-like. She never spoke, or smiled, or left her chamber, except to go through the wretched semblance of partaking her father’s meals; but sat muttering inarticulate words, and sometimes wringing her hands, when she was alone; but when others were present, perfectly calm and tranquil, though very sad and silent. The third day came, and she grew restless and eager. There was a hard, red spot on her cheek-bones, and an unnatural glitter in her clear, ghastly eye. Her hand trembled nervously; she was quick in her mood, and irritable to her attendants—a quenchless and insatiate thirst tormented her. The fourth day came. It was the blessed Sabbath; but for the first time in her life she refused to accompany Sir Hugh to the village church, and kept her chamber during the noon-day meal. As sunset drew near she became more impatient; and as the early twilight settled down on the sere woods and silent waters, she donned her cloak, and sallied forth alone, and took her way up the accustomed path toward the tank, which still bears her name—Margaret’s Well. It was quite dark when she returned, wet with the night-dew, and shivering with cold; but she declined all refreshment, knelt down by her bed-side, and prayed fervently, and laid her down, not to her sleep, but to think, to hope, to despair. The fifth day came, and again she went not forth until evening; again took her sad, fruitless walk; again returned, colder and sadder and more silent than before, again dismissed her woman, and prayed, and laid her down in mute and tearless agony. The next day came—the last; and she must either accept Acton’s hand this night, or on the morrow quit her native land forever. Meanwhile anxiety had grown into fear, concerning the absence of the old forester, who had not been seen for a week; and the country was searched far and near, but no tidings were had of him, and it was whispered that the old man had been murdered. But the secret had leaked out among the household of the terrible decision which was that day to be made by their young mistress; and the fate of the forester was forgotten in the horrid anticipation of something more awful yet. At noon, Sir Andrew Acton returned to the Hall, for the first time that week, and was closeted with Sir Hugh in his own study. But Margaret knew not, heeded not—she was immersed in the deepest and most awful meditation. Just before sunset, she braided her hair firmly, trained her beautiful ringlets to fall down over her fair shoulders, arrayed herself from head to foot in spotless white, as a virgin bride, and then wrapping a heavily-furred mantle round her, and covering her head with its capuchin, or hood, stole forth softly, and sped with a quick, silent step up the dank, gloomy wood-path.