The buzz of woodland life has ceased; unfathomable silence seems to dwell in these rocky hills and valleys. But suddenly a sharp shrill note sounds upon the air. It is a bird's note, but no mate's voice replies. It is like himself; solitary in the midst of this ungracious scene, which frowningly proclaims, "Love finds here no dwelling-place." Again the note sounds, and as he makes his way toward it, curious to see what kind of bird haunts so desolate a place, he hears a faint echo answer--a voice with no soul in it, he thinks in his then melancholy mood. He comes to the opening of a small cave, the walls of which assume fantastic shapes in the dim light. And there, uttering its wail, to which only mocking echoes make response, he sees the Solitary Warbler standing alone in the centre of the cave, like the Cain of its race. He sighs and walks on--over the rocky range, into woodland again, where the ground dips, and where the rich soil is teeming with new wonders; and coming to a great pool, he sits down by its side. He has been to this spot before. Chancing upon it by accident in one of his rambles, he was attracted by its beauty, and by the singular effect of the shifting shadows upon the bosom of the pool, whose surface is almost covered by lovely pink-and-white water-lilies. He looks now into the water, and sees his haggard face reflected between the beautifully-colored lilies. And singularly enough he sees at the same time, with the eyes of his mind, the picture of Minnie as she stood before him, with eyes downcast and the flowers in her hair. It is because he was disturbed by thought of her that he left his work. He knows her secret but too well. She loves him with all her soul. She tells it in every look, in every word; every little act of hers towards him is imbued with dangerous tenderness, and yet she is unconscious of wrong. Every day she grows more devoted--every day grows more beautiful. And it is a part of his great misery to feel that her society gives him pleasure as well as pain. He is storm-tossed by a conflict of feeling. In this conflict no miserable vanity finds place, although it might be well excused in most men in such a position; nor is he by a thought false to Ellen. But Minnie is dependent upon him, lives upon his kindness, asks nothing from him but gentle speech. Shall he deny her this? Shall he be false to his nature, and be harsh where harshness would be brutality? He is strong; she is weak. Her power is in her weakness; his weakness is in his strength. She leans upon him for support, and rules by submission.