And with this shrewd resolve he set forth to pay his visit at the cottage. If in his step and air, as he went, none could have read the lover's ardor, there was that in his proud carriage and glancing eye that bespoke a spirit revelling in its own sense of triumph. While Mr. Linton is thus pursuing his way, let us use the privilege of our craft by anticipating him, and taking a peep at that cottage interior in which he is so soon to figure. Old Mr. Corrigan had arisen from his bed weary and tired: a night of sleepless care weighed heavily on him; and he sat at his untasted breakfast with all the outward signs of a sick man. Mary Leicester, too, was pale and sad-looking; and although she tried to wear her wonted smile, and speak with her accustomed tones, the heavy eyelids and the half-checked sighs that broke from her at times betrayed how sad was the spirit from which they came. “I have been dreaming of that old nunnery at Bruges all night, Mary,” said her grandfather, after a long and unbroken silence; “and you cannot think what a hold it has taken of my waking thoughts. I fancied that I was sitting in the little parlor, waiting to see you, and that, at last, a dark-veiled figure appeared at the grille, and beckoned me to approach. I hastened to do so, my heart fluttering with I know not what mixture of hope and fear,--the hope it might be you, and then the fear, stronger than even hope, that I should read sadness in that sweet face--sorrow, Mary--regret for leaving that world you never were to see more.” “And was it me, dearest papa?” “No, Mary,” said he, with a lower and more meaning tone, “it was another, one whom I never saw before. She came to tell me that--that”--he faltered, and wiping a tear from his eyes, made an effort to seem calm--“that I had lost you, darling! lost by a separation darker and more terrible than even the iron bars of a nunnery can make. And although I bethought me that you had but gone there, whither I myself was hastening, I felt sorrow-struck by the tidings. I had clung so long to the hope of leaving you behind me here, to enjoy that world of which all your affectionate care has denied you enjoyment--to know how, amidst its troubles and reverses, there are healing springs of love that recompense its heaviest inflictions--I cherished this wish so long, so ardently, that I could not face the conviction which told me it should never be.” “Dearest papa, remember this was but a dream; bethink you, for an instant, that it was all unreal; that I am beside you, my hand in yours, my head upon your shoulder; that we are not parted, nor ever shall be.” The tone of deep fervor in which she spoke drew tears from the old man's eyes, and he turned away to hide them. “It was but a dream, as you say, Mary; but do not my waking thoughts conjure up a future to the full as gloomy? A few months, at furthest, a year or so more--less sanguine prophets would perhaps say weeks--and where shall I be? and where you, Mary?”