Another month passed by, and the colour and tone of my existence had suffered a momentous change.  In the acquirement of a fearful joy, I had lost all joy.  In rendering every moment of my life blissful and ecstatic, I had robbed myself of all felicity.  A few weeks before, and my state of being had realized a serenity that defied all causes of perturbation and disquiet.  Now it was a sea of agitation and disorder; and a breath, a nothing had brought the restless waves upon the quiet surface.  Through the kindness of Mr Fairman, my evenings had been almost invariably passed in the society of himself and his daughter.  The lads were early risers, and retired, on that account, at a very early hour to rest.  Upon their dismission, I had been requested to join the company in the drawing-room.  This company included sometimes Doctor Mayhew, the neighbouring squire, or a chance visitor, but consisted oftenest only of the incumbent and his daughter.  Aware of the friendly motive which suggested the request, I obeyed it with alacrity.  On these occasions, Miss Fairman used her pencil, whilst I read aloud; or she would ply her needle, and soothe at intervals her father’s ear with strains of music, which he, for many reasons, loved to hear.  Once or twice the incumbent had been called away, and his child and I were left together.  I had no reason to be silent whilst the good minister was present, yet I found that I could speak more confidently and better when he was absent.  We conversed with freedom and unrestraint.  I found the maiden’s mind well stored—­her voice was not more sweet than was her understanding clear and cloudless.  Books had been her joy, which, in the season of suffering, had been my consolation.  They were a common source of pleasure.  She spoke of them with feeling, and I could understand her.  I regarded her with deep unfeigned respect; but, the evening over, I took my leave, as I had come—­in peace.  Miss Fairman left the parsonage to pay a two-days’ visit at a house in the vicinity.  Until the evening of the first day I was not sensible of her absence.  It was then, and at the customary hour of our reunion, that, for the first time, I experienced, with alarm, a sense of loneliness and desertion—­that I became tremblingly conscious of the secret growth of an affection that had waited only for the time and circumstance to make its presence and its power known and dreaded.  In the daily enjoyment of her society, I had not estimated its influence and value.  Once denied it, and I dared not acknowledge to myself how precious it had become, how silently and fatally it had wrought upon my heart.  The impropriety and folly of self-indulgence were at once apparent—­yes, the vanity and wickedness—­and, startled by what looked like guilt, I determined manfully to rise superior to temptation.  I took refuge in my books; they lacked their usual interest, were ineffectual in reducing the ruffled mind to order.  I rose and paced my room, but I could not escape from agitating