During the journey, she found that Frederic was acquainted with Anthony’s attachment to her; and the frank and generous sympathy that he expressed for the unhappy young man won from his fair companion her confidence and friendship.  He was the only person whom she had ever met to whom she could speak of Anthony without reserve, and he behaved to her like a true friend in the dark hour of doubt and agony.

The night was far advanced when they arrived at Millbank.  Clary was sleeping, and the physician thought it better that she should not be disturbed.

The room allotted to Miss Whitmore’s use was the one which had been occupied by Anthony.  Everything served to remind her of its late tenant.  His books, his papers, his flute, were there.  Her own portfolio, containing the little poems he so much admired, was lying upon the table, and within it lay a bunch of dried flowers—­wild flowers—­which she had gathered for him upon the heath near his uncle’s park; but what paper is that attached to the faded nosegay?  It is a copy of verses.  She knows his handwriting, and trembles as she reads—­

    Ye are wither’d, sweet buds, but love’s hand can portray
      On memory’s tablets each delicate hue;
    And recall to my bosom the long happy day
      When she gathered ye, fresh sprinkled over with dew. 
    Ah, never did garland so lovely appear,
      For her warm lip had breathed on each beautiful flower;
    And the pearl on each leaf was less bright than the tear
      That gleamed in her eyes in that rapturous hour.

    Ye are wither’d, sweet buds, but in memory ye bloom,
      Nor can nature’s stern edict your loveliness stain;
    Ye are fadeless and rich in undying perfume,
      And your sweetness, like truth, shall unaltered remain. 
    When this fond beating heart shall be cold in the grave,
      Oh, mock not my bier with fame’s glittering wreath;
    But bid on my temples these wither’d buds wave,
      Through life fondly cherish’d, and treasured in death.

And had he really kept these withered flowers for her sake?  How did her soul flow up into her eyes, to descend upon those faded blossoms in floods of tears, as sadly she pressed them to her lips and heart!

Then came the dreadful thought—­He whom you thus passionately love is a murderer, the murderer of his father!  The hand that penned those tender lines has been stained with blood.  Shuddering, she let the flowers fall from her grasp.  She turned, and met the mild beautiful eyes of his mother.  The lifeless picture seemed to reproach her for daring for a moment to entertain such unworthy suspicions of her child, and she murmured for the hundredth time, since she first heard the tale of horror, “No, no, I cannot believe him guilty.”

She undressed and went to bed.  The bed in which he had so lately slept, in which he had passed so many wakeful hours in thinking of her; in forming bright schemes of future happiness, and triumphing in idea over the seeming impossibilities of his untoward destiny.  His spirit appeared to hover around her, and in dreams she once more wandered with him through forest paths, eloquent with the song of birds, and bright with spring and sunshine.