"I was wretched," replied Giles; "I felt that I had no comfort upon earth, and no hope beyond it. Till, at last, I thought that this unbelief was only a curse for having done wrong. So I took to prayer, and never gave it up till better thoughts came." "But how," asked the stranger, bending forward, and regarding the old man earnestly, till it made him almost shrink from that dark eye, which looked almost piteous in its intensity, while the voice of the enquirer was touching, deep, and melodious, "how could you pray when you had no faith." "Sir," said Giles, "whatever creed or religion you may profess, you must still feel, that to doubt as I did, is the greatest curse that can fall upon the heart of man, and doubt as we may, we know it to be a curse. If you ever feel as I did, do not ask questions, and put yourself wrong, and then try and set yourself right by your own judgment, as I did; but go down upon your bended knees, and pray for light as a child might pray--I never found peace till then." The stranger folded his arms upon his breast, and, with his eyes fixed on the fire, as before, gave no sign that he had even heard the reply to his question. Giles, perhaps, thought he had said too much, and remained in confusion, glancing uneasily at him. The wind, which had been rising more and more during the evening, now howled aloud increasing the comfort of the inn fire, and the dislike of the party to separate; yet no one seemed inclined to speak, and the wind roared on, yelling as it swept in heavy gusts through the building. Suddenly, a loud and tremulous knocking was heard at the door, together with voices demanding admittance. After a little hesitation, the door was opened by the landlord, and several women rushed in, crying vehemently. "For, heaven's sake, come and help us, for the place is all on fire!" CHAPTER XV. She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer; Apart she sighed; alone she shed the tear. Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. CRABBE. On the night which followed Lucy's departure the cottage seemed singularly lonely. The wayward girl could not but be missed in so small a household. Her very waywardness, indeed, had caused excitement, which slightly roused Mabel's thoughts from present and coming evils. It was night--how strange is its power over us? Can it be more than fancy that the spirits of darkness have freer power to wander unseen upon our earth? Why else should we start with such vague terror, at the slightest sound which breaks the stillness? Why should we often feel almost a childish desire for companionship?