the love which had existed between them,—­a feeling so feeble and so poor, compared to that which he felt for me, as to be unworthy of the name.  He entreated, he implored my love.  I was silent.  He bent over me, gazing into my face.  There was a traitor lurking in my heart, which looked out of my eyes, and spoke without my consent.  He understood that language but too well.  I bent my eyes upon the ground,—­his arm was around my waist, his hand clasped mine, his lips approached my cheek.  A shadow seemed suddenly to come between me and the sun.  I looked up and saw Eleanor, clad in mourning, standing before us.  I started at once to my feet, and, like the coward that I am, fled and left them together.  I ran down to the old hawthorn-tree, against which I leaned, panting and trembling.  Yet, in a few moments, ashamed of my weakness, I stole back to where I could see them unobserved.  Eleanor stood upon the same spot, calm and motionless.  Thornton was speaking, but I was too far off to hear more than the sound of his voice.  When he had ended, he approached her, as if to bid her adieu; but she passed him with a stately bow, and entered the hall-door.  Thornton took his way to the stables, and I soon heard the clattering of his horse’s hoofs on the hard gravelled road.  When the sound died away in the distance, I stole into the house and crept up to my chamber.  How long I was there I could not tell; but when I heard the bell ring for tea, I washed my face and smoothed my hair.  I would not be so cowardly as to fear to see Eleanor again, and perhaps it would be better for us both to meet in the presence of a third person.

“Mrs. Bickford was alone at the table.  ’Miss Purcill would not come down tonight,—­she was fatigued with her journey.’

“The good lady strove to entertain me with her conversation, but, finding that I neither heard, answered, nor ate, our meal was soon brought to a close.  It is long past midnight.  I have thought till I am sick and giddy with thinking.  I cannot sleep, and have been writing here to control the wildness of my imaginings.  I have been twice to Eleanor’s chamber.  The door is half ground-glass, and I can see her black shadow as she walks to and fro across the room.  She has been walking so ever since she entered it.

“October 4.—­What shall I do?  Where shall I go?  All night and all day Eleanor has walked her chamber-floor.  I have been to the door.  I have knocked.  I have called her by name.  I have turned the handle,—­the door is locked.  No answer comes to me,—­nothing but the black shadow flitting across the panes.  I sat down by the threshold and burst into tears.

“Mrs. Bickford found me there.  ‘Do not grieve so, Miss Elizabeth,’ said she, kindly.  ’It is dreadful, I know; but Miss Purcill walked the floor all night after her father died, and would admit no one to her room.  She will be better to-morrow.’