“I will fly with him—I will fly with him, if he be here,” she muttered. “This absolves me from all duty; and if not—Jesu, Jesu have mercy, and forgive!” She reached the tank, and gazed about her earnestly. All was lonely and dark and silent as the grave. “Lionel!” she shrieked aloud. “Lionel!—Lionel Thornhill!” and her wild, thrilling tones were re-echoed many times from wood and hill, but no answer came—and again all was silent. The sun had already set—the distant clock from the stable turret struck seven. “It is past the time,” she said calmly. “And thou, too, hast forsaken me. But I will wait—I will wait yet one hour. When we last met here, I chid him for impatience; I will not, therefore, be—impatient.” And she laughed bitterly. Oh! what an awful sound was that! how fearfully indicative of a broken and disordered spirit? and she folded her arms on her bosom, and sat down at the base of the very tree beneath which he had sat at their last meeting—sat down awaiting the next chime of the distant clock. The dews fell heavily around her; the sere leaves dropped upon her motionless head; an aquatic bird cried several times hoarsely and fearfully from the ponds below, but she moved neither hand nor foot, nor spoke, nor sighed, nor trembled—but sat there a dark statue. What awful thoughts passed through her mind in that strange place, in that terrific hour, one knows alone; what fearful misery it was that drove that gay and innocent young spirit to such despair, one knows alone——may HE be merciful. The stable clock struck eight. Then she arose and cast off her shrouding cloak, and stood in the murky night pure in her virgin vestments, cold and resolved, and—was she fearless? She knelt her down, and buried her face in her hands, and prayed, or seemed to pray, for a little space. Then she arose again, listened one little moment— “It is too late—too late. Jesu, forgive us both! Jesu, sweet Jesu!” There was a heavy plash, a sullen plunge! two or three bubbling sobs, and dull undulations of the water followed, and all again was solitude and silence. The dews fell heavily, the leaves dropped silently into the tank above her, once more the aquatic night-bird shrieked in the sedges—but that immortal soul had gone before its Maker and its Judge. It was, perhaps, half an hour later, when the clang of a horse’s hoof came thundering at mad speed down the steep hill-side—it ceased—a rapid footstep followed it, bounding in frantic haste along the rugged path. A loud voice, trembling with anxiety, cried—“Margaret! Margaret!” but Margaret was not—to hear those beloved accents. Lionel Thornhill rushed into the little space, but all was vacant. A nameless feeling led him to the base of that tree; he trod on something, he knew not what, of a strange texture, stopped—it was Margaret’s mantle.