The next morning was beautiful, like most June mornings. Armstrong, who had not closed his eyes during the whole night, rose with the dawn to wander through his garden, which was a favorite resort. His walk, at first rapid and irregular, as if he were trying to work off a nervous excitement, gradually slackened, until it became a firm, composed step. With folded arms and compressed, resolved lips, he paced up and down the paths. He was living in an interior world. He heard not the singing of the birds, which, in great numbers, frequented the spacious gardens and orchards lying around; he saw not the beautiful flowers, burdening the air with sweetness; nor the young fruit, whose progress, through the various stages of its growth, he had once watched with so much pleasure. His mind went back to the time when he was a school-boy with his brother George; when they slept in the same bed, and associated in the same sports; it then advanced to their college days, and the face of the beautiful girl, who became his wife, flitted by him. He thought of that fair face now for many a long day, mouldering in the grave, into which he had seen the coffin lowered; then his thoughts reverted to his brother George, so brave, so generous, so strong once, but who presented himself to his vision now, a livid corpse, dripping with water. Next came his mother, of whom his recollection was faint; and then his father, with insanity in his eyes. He felt, as it were, their presence around him, but it was a companionship which afforded no pleasure. There seemed to be something about himself that invincibly held them off, notwithstanding their attempts to approach--a sullen sphere, which projected a dark shadow, only to the edge of which the spirits could come, and which they made repeated efforts to cross. While Armstrong was suffering under these strange delusions, Felix approached, to call him to breakfast. The black beheld him walking backwards and forwards, with orderly and composed steps, and congratulated himself upon the change since the day before. He had not, however, ventured to address his master since being ordered away, and uncertain how he would be received, preferred to be spoken to first. With this view, he drew nigh one of the flower-beds, which Armstrong was passing and re-passing, and pretended to busy himself with tying up one of the rose bushes, then in full bloom. Armstrong did not see Felix as he passed, so deep was his reverie, but on retracing his steps, he observed a shadow on the path, which occasioned him to lift his eyes, when he discerned the black. He stopped and spoke. "Felix," he said, "I was unkind to you yesterday. I ask your pardon." "O, Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, his eyes protruding with astonishment, "there is no 'casion. I say so many foolish things, it is no wonder you out of patience sometime."