“Oh, to know the worst—­the very worst—­were better than this sore agony.”  Years of care were compressed into that one night of weary watching.  “He will never come.  I shall never, never see him again.  I feel now, as I felt when my sisters were taken from me, that I should see them no more on earth.  But I cannot weep for him as I wept for them.  I knew that they were happy, that they were gone to rest, and I felt as if an angel’s hand dried my tears.  But I weep for him as one without hope, as for one whom a terrible destiny has torn from me.  I love him, but my love is a crime, for he loves another.  Oh, woe is me!  Why did we ever meet, if thus we are doomed to part?”

She looked up at the cold clear moon—­up to the glorious stars of night, and her thoughts, so lately chained to earth, soared upwards to the Father of her spirit, and once more she bowed in silent adoration to her Saviour and her God.

“Forgive me, holy Father!” she murmured.  “I have strayed from thy fold, and my steps have stumbled upon the rough places of the earth.  I have reared up an idol in thy sacred temple, and worshipped the creature more than the Creator.  The love of the world is an unholy thing.  It cannot satisfy the cravings of an immortal spirit.  It cannot fill up the emptiness of the human heart.  Return to thy rest, O my soul!  I dedicate thee and all thy affections to thy God!”

She bowed her head upon her hands and wept; such tears purify the source from whence they flow, and Clary felt a solemn calm steal over her agitated spirit, as, kneeling beneath the wide canopy of heaven, she prayed long and earnestly for strength to subdue her passion for Anthony, and to become obedient in word, thought, and deed, to the will of God; and she prayed for him, with a fervor and devotion which love alone can give—­prayed that he might be shielded from all temptation, from the wickedness and vanity of the world, from the deceitfulness of his own heart.

She was still in the act of devotion, when the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caused her to start suddenly from her knees.  A man ran past at full speed, then another, and another:  then a group of women without hats and shawls, running and calling to one another.  What could all this mean, at that still hour of night, and in that lonely place?

Clary’s heart beat tumultuously.  She rushed to the garden gate, that opened from the lawn into the main road.  She called aloud to one of the retreating figures to stop and inform her what was the matter.  Why they were abroad at that late hour, and whither they were going?  No one slackened their speed, or stayed one moment to answer her enquires.  At length an old man, tired and out of breath, came panting along; one whom Clary knew, and springing into the road she intercepted his path.

“Ralph Hilton, what is the matter?  Is there a fire in the neighborhood?  Where are you all going?”

“Up to the Hall, Miss Clary.  Dear, dear, have you not heard the news?  The old man has been murdered.  Murdered by his son.  Alack, alack, ’tis a desperate piece of wickedness!  The coroner is up at the old cottage, sitting upon the body, and I want to get a sight of the murdered man, like the rest of ’un.”