I went up the same avenue, through the same wide grassy places, saw the same statue from whose base had arisen the lovely form which soon became a part of my existence. Then everything looked rich, because I had come from a poor, grand country. In all my wanderings I had seen nothing so rich; yet now it seemed poverty-stricken. That it was autumn could not account for this; for I had always found that the sadness of autumn vivified the poetic sense; and that the colours of decay had a pathetic glory more beautiful than the glory of the most gorgeous summer with all its flowers. It was winter within me--that was the reason; and I could feel no autumn around me, because I saw no spring beyond me. It had fared with my mind as with the garden in the _Sensitive Plant,_ when the lady was dead. I was amazed and troubled at the stolidity with which I walked up to the door, and, having rung the bell, waited. No sweet memories of the past arose in my mind; not one of the well-known objects around looked at me as claiming a recognition. Yet, when the door was opened, my heart beat so violently at the thought that I might see her, that I could hardly stammer out my inquiry after Mrs. Blakesley. I was shown to a room. None of the sensations I had had on first crossing the threshold were revived. I remembered them all; I felt none of them. Mrs. Blakesley came. She did not recognise me. I told her who I was. She stared at me for a moment, seemed to see the same face she had known still glimmering through all the changes that had crowded upon it, held out both her hands, and burst into tears. “Mr. Campbell,” she said, “you _are_ changed! But not like her. She’s the same to look at; but, oh dear!” We were both silent for some time. At length she resumed:-- “Come to my room; I have been mistress here for some time now.” I followed her to the room Mrs. Wilson used to occupy. She put wine on the table. I told her my story. My labours, and my wounds, and my illness, slightly touched as I trust they were in the course of the tale, yet moved all her womanly sympathies. “What can I do for you, Mr. Campbell?” she said. “Let me see her,” I replied. She hesitated for a moment. “I dare not, sir. I don’t know what it might do to her. It might send her raving; and she is so quiet.” “Has she ever raved?” “Not often since the first week or two. Now and then occasionally, for an hour or so, she would be wild, wanting to get out. But she gave that over altogether; and she has had her liberty now for a long time. But, Heaven bless her! at the worst she was always a lady.” “And am I to go away without even seeing her?” “I am very sorry for you, Mr. Campbell.” I felt hurt--foolishly, I confess--and rose. She put her hand on my arm. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, sir. She always falls asleep in the afternoon; you may see her asleep, if you like.” “Thank you; thank you,” I answered. “That will be much better. When shall I come?” “About three o’clock.”