and loading with odorous breath the air that tossed its vines ere stealing across the lake.  She trembled now, and remembered that she alone of all the party had always unconsciously evaded entering Mr. Raleigh’s house, had never seen the house nearer than now, and never been its guest.  It was entering some dark, unknown place; it was to intrude on a sacred region.  But the breeze hurried her along while she thought, and the next moment the keel was buried in the sand.  There was no time to lose; she left the boat, ascended a flight of stone steps close at hand, and was in the garden.  Low, ripe greenery was waving over her here, deep alluring shadows opening around, full fresh fragrance fanning idly to and fro and stealing her soul away.  Beyond, the lake gleamed darkly, the water lapped gently, the wind sighed and fell like a fluttering breath.  She would have lingered forever,—­she dared not linger a moment.  She brushed the dew from the heavy blossoms as she swept on, then the drenching branches swayed and closed behind her; she found a door ajar, and hastily entered the first room which appeared.

There were stray starbeams in this apartment; her eyes were accustomed to the gloom; she could dimly discern the great book-cases lining the wall,—­an antique chair,—­the glittering key-board of a grand-piano that stood apart, yet thrilling perhaps with recent harmonies,—­a colossal head of Antinoues, that self-involved dreamer, stone-entranced in a calm of passion.  She had been feverishly agitated; but as this white silence dawned upon her, so strong, yet voluptuous, never sad, making in its masque of marble one intense moment eternal, some of the same power spread soothingly over her.  She paused a moment to gather the thronging thoughts.  How still the room was! she had not known that music was at his command before.  How sweet the air that blew in at the window! what late flowers bore such pungent balm?  That portrait leaning half-startled from the frame, was it his mother?  These books, were they the very ones that had fed his youth?  How everything was yet warm from his touch! how his presence yet lingered! how much of his life had passed into the dim beauty of the place!  How each fresh waft from the blooms without came drowned in fine perfume, laden with delicious languor!  What heaven was there! and, ah! what heaven was yet possible there!

Something that had flitted from the table in the draught, and had hovered here and there along the floor, now lay at her foot; she caught it absently; it was her letter.  To snatch it from its envelope, and so tear it the more easily to atoms, was her first thought; but as suddenly she paused.  Was it hers?  Though written and sealed by her hand, had she any longer possession therein?  Had she more authority over it than over any other letter that might be in the room?  Absurd refinement of honor!  She broke the seal.  Yet stay!  Was there no justice due to him?  That letter which had been read long