But one fine summer’s evening, as Elizabeth and George were wandering in the orchard of the Grange, Elizabeth said, with a sad seriousness, to him, “George, I have a mind to go down to the ferry—it haunts me continually. I cannot get rid of it. I dream of it as dark and dreadful; and I think, if I could see it on such an evening as this, I should be less affected by it afterwards.” George looked anxiously at her, and then said—“My dear Elizabeth, weigh well your strength; if you _could_ bear it, I think, too, it might have a good effect.” He gave her his arm, and they proceeded down the orchard; he opened the little gate, of which each member of the family carried a key, and they passed out to the river side. Without a word, they walked down to the ferry; a more tranquil scene it was impossible for the human eye to look upon; the river ran full and peacefully, gliding on, the clear gravel seen through its translucent waters. On all sides green meadows, and peaceful banks, overhung with the verdurous trees, the thrush and blackbird chanting as if the whole were ground hallowed to repose, presented anything but a revolting aspect. Notwithstanding George saw Elizabeth’s eye run excitedly from object to object, he knew she was calculating where everything had occurred that she had read of. He felt her shudder by his side; and he said,—“Let us go back, my dear Elizabeth.” “No, no,” said she, in a voice firm, but full of deep feeling; “let us go on, let us cross, it will do me good.” They went on, George pulled the boat across, and Elizabeth looked around over those expansive meadows. She then proposed to return, and in the same silence they retraced their steps, and went up the orchard to the summer-house in the garden. Elizabeth sat down, and looked pale and faint. “I will run for some wine,” said George. “No, no wine, George; bring me Letty’s Eau-de-Cologne.” George was quickly back. Elizabeth bathed her forehead and inhaled the odour, and then faintly smiling, said,—“I am better, and I shall be better; I am glad I have forced myself to cross that ferry, it has given me a different picture in my mind. I shall gradually get to see that only, and I shall be so much happier.” And this eventually became the case. The ferry was not a place that Elizabeth ever desired to see; there was indeed scarcely any reason that she should go near it; but in her mind the horrible images of the fatal event, as she had read them, had now been softened and concealed, to a certain degree, by the summer evening tranquillity which she had seen, and in the ordinary life at home, the most painful sensations had disappeared on any mention of Woodburn Ferry. “In a country which we both love so much,” she said to her husband, “I would not have a single thing which can cause me a pang or a regret.”