the stile, and then for the first time look round; he sank under the hedge, to hide himself; and when he cautiously looked forth again the girl had vanished.  But he knew whither she was going now.  He had assisted her across that very stile but a few days ago; he had walked with her through the hazel copse, and skirted the clear trout-stream by her side; and he could follow her now at utmost speed, and with less caution, for the path was green and noiseless.  He could hear his heart beat—­not from want of breath—­as though in accord with the silver treble of the stream, as he sped along.  Through the scanty foliage of the dell he saw her light dress gleam across the wooden bridge, but he himself stopped beside it, peering through the lattice of the branches upon her as she stood on the green bank of the Wishing-Well.

Never had moon-beams shone upon a sight more fair.  Harry was attired as she had been on the previous evening, except that she wore a shawl, which also served her as head-gear, like a hood.  This she now unfastened, and taking out the pin that had joined it together, held it above the well, which showed, as in a mirror, her leaning face and curving form, her wealth of hair, her frightened yet hopeful eyes, and the rise and fall of her bosom, filled with anxiety and superstitious awe.  She had come to test her future—­to foresee her fate—­at Gethin Wishing-Well.  For an instant she poised the pin, her lips at the same time murmuring some simple charm—­then dropped it into the well’s clear depths, and watched it fall.  As she did so, another figure seemed to glide upon the liquid mirror, at the sight of which she clasped her hands and trembled.  Superstitious as she was, Harry had only half expected that her foolish curiosity would be actually gratified.  Moved by the avowal of Richard’s love that morning, the obstacles to which seemed to her so formidable, she had wished to see her future husband, to know how fate would decide between him she loved and him whom her father had chosen for her, and yet she was terrified now that that which she had desired was vouchsafed her.  She scarcely dared to look upon yonder shadowy form, although its presence seemed to assure her of the fulfillment of her dearest wish.  It was the counterfeit presentment of Richard Yorke himself; bareheaded, just as she had seen him last in the bar parlor, but with heightened color, an eager smile, and a loving gratitude in his eyes, which seemed to thank her for having thus summoned him before her.  The figure was at right angles from her own, but the face was turned toward her.  She gazed upon it intently, looking for it to faint and fade, since its mission had been accomplished.  She even drew back a little, as though to express content, yet there was the vision still, a glorious picture in its fair round frame of moss and greenery.  Supposing it should remain there (her pale face flushed at the thought) indelibly and forever, to tell the secret of her heart to all the world!  Then a whisper, that seemed to tremble beneath its freight of love, whispered, “Harry!  Harry!” and she looked up, and saw the substance of the shadow, her lover, standing upon the little wooden bridge!