but could not determine.  Suddenly—­I know not how nor why—­that ill-looking stranger who lodged one night at your uncle’s, and departed so mysteriously, came up in my mind; and almost at the same moment, I fancied myself riding with you, dear Ella, through a dark and lonely wood—­when all of a sudden there came a fierce yell—­several dark, hideous forms, with him among them, swam around me—­I heard you shriek for aid—­and then all became darkness and confusion; from which I was aroused by some one inquiring if I were ill?  What I answered I know not; but the querist immediately took his leave.”

“It all seems very strange, Algernon,” observed Ella, thoughtfully; “but it was probably nothing more than a feverish dream, brought about by your exercise acting too suddenly and powerfully upon your nervous system, which doubtless has not as yet recovered from the prostration caused by your wound.”

“So I tried to think, dear Ella,” returned Algernon, with a sigh; “but I have not even yet been able to shake off the gloomy impression, that, whatever the cause, it was sent as a warning of danger.  But I am foolish, perhaps, to think as I do; and so let us change the subject.  You spoke a few moments since of destiny.  You said, if I mistake not, you believed each individual capable of shaping his own.”

“I did,” answered Ella; “with the exception, that I qualified it by saying in a measure.  No person, I think, has the power of moulding himself to an end which is contrary to the law of nature and his own physical organization; but at the same time he has many ways, some good and some evil, left open for him to choose; else he were not a free agent.”

“Ay,” rejoined Algernon, “by-paths all to the same great end.  I look upon every one here, Ella, as a traveler placed upon the great highway called destiny—­with a secret power within that impels him forward, but allows no pause nor retrograde.  Along this highway are flowers, and briars, and thistles, and weeds, and shady woods, and barren rocks, and sterile bluffs, and glassy plots; but proportioned differently to each, as the Maker of all designs his path to be pleasant or otherwise.  Beside this highway are perhaps a dozen minor paths, all running a similar course, and all finally merging into it—­either near or far, as the case may be—­before its termination at the great gate of death.  The free agency you speak of, is in choosing of these lesser paths—­some of which are full of the snares of temptation, the chasms of ruin, and the pitfalls of destruction; and some of the flowers of peace, the bowers of plenty, and the green woods of contentment.  But how to follow the proper one is the difficulty; for they run into one another—­cross and recross in a thousand different ways—­so that the best disposed as often hit the wrong as the right one, and are entrapped before they are aware of their dangerous course.  Worldly wisdom is here put at fault, and the fool as often goes right as the wise man of lore—­thus showing, notwithstanding our free agency, that circumstances govern us; and that what many put down as crime, is, in fact, oftentimes, neither more nor less than error of judgment.”