He rose next morning, looking, as his friends declared, like a ghost. He ate no breakfast--he could not talk--he could not work; but could only walk about, lost in abstracted meditation. The dinner-hour came with noon, but he could eat nothing--he had neither appetite, speech, nor animation. No efforts of his parents could call forth any of his energies--they knew he had been to see his brother; but they could not get him to declare the purport of his visit. He said that his brother was well; that nothing had happened to him; that he had seen him quite well; and that he was promoted a step in the service; and that he was constantly employed. It was evident to them that something was preying upon the young man's mind which he would not disclose. They did not, however, distress him with questions; and after dinner, he departed from the house, and was observed to walk toward Nacton. He found Margaret returned, and seated by the fireside, as she was the day before when he visited her. She looked very pale and thoughtful. The young man took this as a necessary consequence of the shock she had received at the sight of her lover's corpse, little dreaming that at that very moment she was actually feeling for the distress of him who then stood before her. "Well, Margaret, I am come, according to your appointment." "I am very grateful to you for your assistance. I should never have forgiven myself had I not gone. I saw your brother, sir, and he was very kind to me. Through his permission I obtained a sight of the bodies in the boat-house, and he told me concerning the melancholy wreck of the schooner; but--but both you and your brother, sir, are mistaken." The heart of the youth was so stricken, he could not for a time utter one single word--he sat all astonishment, all dismay, all agony, all despair. There was no joyful congratulation for Margaret, there was no apology for his mistake--feelings too deep for utterance overpowered him. Margaret saw and felt, in the midst of her own hope, the painful disappointment of his, nor could she summon courage to utter more. After the most afflicting silence, John Barry, as if he could not doubt his own and his brother's eyes, said-- "Are you sure I was mistaken?" "Quite," said Margaret; "quite." "And my brother, how could he be so deceived? he knew Laud so well."