The earth was in the richest flush of her green beauty.  On the morn, Ella was again to be a bride—­the golden light streamed through the glad blue sky, and all looked bright and fair—­the remains of the church, which had long looked black and dreary, were gay with the richness of vegetation—­the bracken waved its green plumes, and the tall mullen plant, with its broad white leaves, raised its pale crest above the charred walls.  While the dew was shining bright I had gone forth—­surprise and consternation greeted my solitary approach when I returned.  Again the holy book had been opened—­the priest stood ready with the bride, and tarried for the lover—­they thought he was with me, but I had not seen him—­daylight passed away, night came, but brought him not—­the moon arose, and her shadowy light gave to familiar things of day the spectral forms of mystery.

While we sat in silence, thinking of Conrad’s absence, a dog’s mournful whine sounded near—­it grew louder, and attracted our attention.  We followed the sound—­it came from the ruins of the church, and there, among the weeds and flowers lay Conrad stiff and cold—­he was dead, and, oh the horrible expression of that face, the demoniac look of despair was never written in such fearful lines on human face before.  All felt relief when ’twas covered from the sight.  One hand had ’twined in the death grasp round the reed-like stem of the mullen plant—­we unclosed it, and it sprung back, tall and straight as before; something glittered in the other—­’twas the half of De Clairville’s golden locket—­how it came to be in his possession was strange, but we thought not of it then.

Events like these have a saddening influence on the mind, and the gloom for Conrad’s sudden death hung heavy o’er us—­Ella’s mourning was long and deep.  I was not grieved to see it, for sorrow makes the spirit wiser.

Three years passed away—­little change had been among us, save that some of our aged were gone, and the young had risen around us.  Once more it was the first of May—­the night was dark and still, but the silvery sounds of the waging earth came like balm o’er the soul—­there was a murmur in the forest, as though one heard the song of the young leaves bursting into life, and the glad gushing of the springing streams rose with them.  The memory of other days was floating o’er my mind, when a soft voice broke on my reverie.  Her thoughts had been with mine—­“Ethel,” said she, “remember you, how on such a night as this, you once sought my love.  Alas! how little knew I then of my own heart—­your’s it should then have been—­you know the shades that have passed over it.  Is Ella’s love a worthless gift, or will you accept it now as freely as ’tis offered.  How long and sternly must we be trained e’er love’s young dream can be forgotten.”  The events that intervened all passed away, and Ella was again the same maiden that stood with me so long ago by the streamlet’s side on Walburga’s eve.  My heart’s long silenced music once more rung forth its melody at her sweet words, and life again was bright with the gems of hope and fond affection.