how little I could remember of the country over which I had travelled.  The scenes through which I had passed were forgotten—­had not been noticed.  Absorbed by the thoughts which possessed my brain, I had suffered myself to be carried forward, conscious of nothing but the waking dreams.  I was prepared, however, to see my friend.  Still influenced by the latent hope of meeting once more with Miss Fairman, still believing in the happy issue of my love, I had resolved to keep my own connexion with the idiot as secret as the grave.  There was no reason why I should betray myself.  His fate was independent of my act—­my conduct formed no link in the chain which must be presented to make the history clear:  and shame would have withheld the gratuitous confession, had not the ever present, never-dying promise forbade the disclosure of one convicting syllable.  As may be supposed, the surprise of Doctor Mayhew, upon hearing the narrative, was no less than the regret which he experienced at the violent death of the poor creature in whom he had taken so kind and deep an interest.  But a few days sufficed to sustain his concern for one who had come to him a stranger, and whom he had known so short a time.  The pursuits and cares of life gradually withdrew the incident from his mind, and all thoughts of the idiot.  He ceased to speak of him.  To me, the last scene of his life was present for many a year.  I could not remove it.  By day and night it came before my eyes, without one effort on my part to invoke it.  It has started up, suddenly and mysteriously, in the midst of enjoyment and serene delight, to mingle bitterness in the cup of earthly bliss.  It has come in the season of sorrow to heighten the distress.  Amongst men, and in the din of business, the vision has intruded, and in solitude it has followed me to throw its shadows across the bright green fields, beautiful in their freshness.  Night after night—­I cannot count their number—­it has been the form and substance of my dreams, and I have gone to rest—­yes, for months—­with the sure and natural expectation of beholding the melancholy repetition of an act which I would have given any thing, and all I had, to forget and drive away for ever.

A week passed pleasantly with my host.  I spoke of departure at the end of it.  He smiled when I did so, bade me hold my tongue and be patient.  I suffered another week to glide away, and then hinted once more that I had trespassed long enough upon his hospitality.  The doctor placed his hand upon my arm, and answered quickly, “all in good time—­do not hurry.”  His tone and manner confirmed, I know not why, the strong hope within me, and his words passed with meaning to my heart.  I already built upon the aerial foundation, and looked forward with joyous confidence and expectation.  The arguments and shows of truth are few that love requires.  The poorest logic is the soundest reasoning—­if it conclude for him.  The visits to the parsonage were, meanwhile, continued.  Upon my return, I