But the balmy morning and the day it presaged were alike lost on our hero, whose mind was filled with reflections concerning his singular mission. He walked on, rapt in thought, till he approached the foot of the hills. He there paused, despite his conclusions of the previous evening, overpowered with a doubtful feeling regarding his errand. He was about to minister to the shadowy spirit whom he had twice beheld upon that insecure summit. What fearful spells might she not weave around him by thus doing her will? He ascended a short distance, and turned to look behind him. A scene of more complete solitude, having all its peculiarities heightened by the serenity of the weather, the quiet composure of the atmosphere, and the perfect stillness of the elements, could hardly be imagined. He could descry nothing of the scenes he had left, save the valley beneath him, and the spire of the village church in the distance. Should he return home or proceed? He remembered his promise to Miss Ellet, and again applied himself to continue his ascent. He drew near the ominous spot—climbed a few steps higher—touched the rock, and placed the basket upon its base. Slowly and gradually appeared the form of the lady of the mist. It was not without something like alarm that Stanley beheld this mysterious being standing close beside him. She had been about to speak, but seeing the boy, cast her beautiful azure eyes on him with a look of surprise, exchanged the basket for another, and with a pensive smile, disappeared from his view. Had all the spells he had dreaded in his approach to the spot been concentrated in that look and smile, the change in the feelings of young Stanley could not have been more instantaneous. Surprise succeeded to his former superstitious sentiments of awe, for he had discovered that the Lady of the Mist was no vague embodiment as he had deemed, but a gentle shape of human flesh and blood. Where or how she had vanished, however, was still a mystery; but he was so overpowered with a sense of his discovery, that he turned to descend without attempting to make any investigation, and reached the village to encounter a day of great agitation. CHAPTER XI. Through solid curls of smoke, the bursting fires Climb in tall pyramids above the spires, Concentring all the winds; whose forces, driven With equal rage from every point of heaven, Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pour The twisting flames, and through the rafters roar. BARLOW. Yes, thou must die—there is but one resource, The last—the worst—if torture were not worse. BYRON.