of hills bounding the horizon, which have not inaptly been termed the English Apennines; though he saw all these things, he thought not of them, neither was he conscious of the sounds that met his ear, and which all spoke of rest from labour, and peace.  Darker and deeper grew his melancholy.  He began to persuade himself he was not long for this world; and, while gazing upon the beautiful prospect before him, was perhaps looking upon it for the last time.

For some minutes Dorothy watched him anxiously, and at last receiving no answer to her questions, and alarmed by the expression of his countenance, she flung her arms round his neck, and burst into tears.  It was now Richard’s turn to console her, and he inquired with much anxiety as to the cause of this sudden outburst of grief.

“You yourself are the cause of it, dear Richard,” replied Dorothy, regarding him with brimming eyes; “I cannot bear to see you so unhappy.  If you suffer this melancholy to grow upon you, it will affect both mind and body.  Just now your countenance wore an expression most distressing to look upon.  Try to smile, dear Richard, if only to cheer me, or else I shall grow as sad as you.  Ah, me!  I have known the day, and not long since either, when on a pleasant summer evening like this you would propose a stroll into the park with me; and, when there, would trip along the glades as fleetly as a deer, and defy me to catch you.  But you always took care I should, though—­ha! ha!  Come, there is a little attempt at a smile.  That’s something.  You look more like yourself now.  How happy we used to be in those days, to be sure!—­and how merry!  You would make the courts ring with your blithe laughter, and wellnigh kill me with your jests.  If love is to make one mope like an owl, and sigh like the wind through a half-shut casement; if it is to cause one to lose one’s rosy complexion and gay spirit, and forget how to dance and sing—­take no pleasure in hawking and hunting, or any kind of sport—­walk about with eyes fixed upon the ground, muttering, and with disordered attire—­if it is to make one silent when one should be talkative, grave when one should be gay, heedless when one should listen—­if it is to do all this, defend me from the tender passion!  I hope I shall never fall in love.”

“I hope you never will, dear Dorothy,” replied Richard, pressing her hand affectionately, “if your love is to be attended with such unhappy results as mine.  I know not how it is, but I feel unusually despondent this evening, and am haunted by a thousand dismal fancies.  But I will do my best to dismiss them, and with your help no doubt I shall succeed.”