If there is a melancholy there is also something sublime and consolatory in the character of the scenery that surrounds it. Every one has felt the influence of lofty mountains near. This region is all beautiful; but the very spirit of solitude and grandeur is over it. I was just consulting with my maid about some simple provisional mourning, for which I was about to despatch her to the town, when our conference was arrested by the appearance of Richard Marston before the window. I had my things on, for I thought it not impossible he might arrive earlier than he had the day before. I told my maid to come again by-and-by; and I went out to meet him. Well, we were now walking on the wild path, along the steep side of the cleugh, towards the lake. What kind of conversation is this going to be? His voice and manner are very gentle--but he looks pale and stern, like a man going into a battle. The signs are very slight, but dreadful. Oh! that the next half-hour was over! What am I about to hear? We walked on for a time in silence. The first thing he said was: "You are to stay here at Dorracleugh--you must not go--but I'm afraid you will be vexed with me." Then we advanced about twenty steps; we were walking slowly, and not a word was spoken during that time. He began again: "Though, after all, it need not make any real difference. There is no will, Ethel; the vicar can tell you that; he had the key, and has made search--no will; and you are left unprovided for--but that shan't affect you. I am heir-at-law, and nearest-of-kin. You know what that means. Everything he possessed, land or money, comes to me. But--I've put my foot into it; it is too late regretting. I can't marry." There was an interval of silence--he was looking in my face. "There! the murder's out. I knew you would be awfully vexed. So am I--miserable--but I can't. That is, perhaps, for many years." There was another silence. I could no more have spoken than I could, by an effort of my will, have lifted the mountain at the other side of the lake from its foundation. Perhaps he misinterpreted my silence. "I ought to have been more frank with you, Ethel--I blame myself very much, I assure you. Can't you guess? Well, I was an awful fool--I'll tell you everything. I feel that I ought to have done so, long ago; but you know, one can't always make up one's mind to be quite frank, and tell a painful story. I am married. In an evil hour, I married a woman in every way unsuited to me--pity me. In a transitory illusion, I sacrificed my life--and, what is dearer, my love. I have not so much as seen her for years, and I am told she is not likely to live long. In the meantime I am yours only--yours entirely and irrevocably, your own. I can offer you safety here, and happiness, my own boundless devotion and adoration, an asylum here, and all the authority and rights of a wife. Ethel--dearest--you won't leave me?"