She walked slowly and softly all round the western end of the church, scanning its gray tower, and casting loving glances at each well-known window. The workmen had not been there for several days, but their poles and scaffolding encumbered the place, and spoke of decay and change, of old things being replaced by new, of all passing away and being forgotten in turn. Her mind went off to scenes where change is unknown――where rust and moth do not invade――where decay comes not――where, blessed thought! distance is not, separation can not grieve, where there is no more sea! Her thoughts were with her husband then, as she must, at least in idea, share all gentle, happy thoughts with him; but her hopes were not bounded by earth; they had gone on into futurity, and time seemed but an atom in space, while she gazed on the vast prospect of eternity. Slowly and softly she trod over the grass, among the graves of hundreds who had loved, and suffered, and wept as she had, and then lain down to sleep and be forgotten. She passed the northern transept, and turning the corner, came forward, with inaudible footsteps, to the eastern end. She was startled suddenly from her reveries, for there, under the old lime-tree, whose yellow leaves now thickly strewed the ground, stood one whom she little thought to see there at such a time; Charles Huyton stood beside her father’s grave. Roused by her footsteps, he looked up suddenly, and starting as he saw her, he raised his hat, with an air of almost haughty defiance, but stood still. Old memories flashed thick and fast on each, as they stood there once more together, and their eyes wandered away to the church-wall, and to the Virginian creeper, whose long sprays still showed some crimson leaves clinging to their parent stem, waiting their turn to fall to rest. Then their looks met, and they each aroused themselves to speak. “Mr. Huyton,” said she, advancing a step, “we are both changed since we stood here once before; and after all that has passed, there is, perhaps, no spot on earth so appropriate as this for us to part. Here, by the grave of one who loved you, and whom I know you must have esteemed and valued in return, let us bury all that may have caused pain to either, and exchange a farewell and forgiveness together.” “I do not agree with you,” replied he, coldly, and making no offer to receive her hand; “it does not appear to me that any two people on this earth can have less reason to wish to speak, or that a spot so unfortunate for a meeting could be found.” She was silenced for a time; he stood gloomily looking at her; at length she said, very gently: “We leave this place to-morrow morning, and I am come now to pay a last, a final visit, to this solemn spot. Need I say more, or need I ask you, as a gentleman, not to intrude on a seclusion so sacred; not to persecute me here with unkind and unholy emotions!” “Have I wronged you, Mrs. Hepburn, that you talk of forgiveness?” said he, sternly.