“In Scarlet town, where I was born,
       There was a fair maid dwellin’,
       Made every youth cry Well-a-way! 
       Her name was Barbara Allen.”

“Are you so happy, Charmian?”

“Oh, sir, indifferent well, I thank you.

     “’All in the merry month of May
       When green buds they were swellin’,
       Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
       For love of Barbara Allen.’

“Are you so—­miserable, Peter?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you sigh, and sigh, like—­poor Jemmy Grove in the song.”

“He was a fool!” said I.

“For sighing, Peter?”

“For dying.”

“I suppose no philosopher could ever be so—­foolish, Peter?”

“No,” said I; “certainly not!”

“It is well to be a philosopher, isn’t it, Peter?”

“Hum!” said I, and once more set about lighting my pipe.  Anon I rose and, crossing to the open door, looked out upon the summer night, and sighed, and coming back, sat watching Charmian’s busy fingers.

“Charmian,” said I at last.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Do you—­ever see any—­any—­men lurking about the Hollow—­when I am away?” Her needle stopped suddenly, and she did not look up as she answered: 

“No, Peter!”

“Never?—­are you—­sure, Charmian?” The needle began to fly to and fro again, but still she did not look up.

“No—­of course not—­how should I see any one?  I scarcely go beyond the Hollow, and—­I’m busy all day.”

“A Eve—­a Eve!” said a voice in my ear.  “Eve tricked Adam, didn’t she?—­a Eve!”

After this I sat for a long time without, moving, my mind harassed with doubts and a hideous, morbid dread.  Why had she avoided my eye?  Her own were pure and truthful, and could not lie!  Why, why had they avoided mine?  If only she had looked at me!

Presently I rose and began to pace up and down the room.

“You are very restless, Peter!”

“Yes,” said I; “yes, I fear I am—­you must pardon me—­”

“Why not read?”

“Indeed I had not thought of my books.”

“Then read me something aloud, Peter.”

“I will read you the sorrow of Achilles for the loss of Briseis,” said I, and, going into the corner, I raised my hand to my shelf of books—­and stood there with hand upraised yet touching no book, for a sudden spasm seemed to have me in its clutches, and once again the trembling seized me, and the hammer had recommenced its beat, beating upon my brain.

And, in a while, I turned from my books, and, crossing to the door, leaned there with my back to her lest she should see my face just then.

“I—­I don’t think I—­will read—­to-night!” said I at last.

“Very well, Peter, let us talk.”

“Or talk,” said I; “I—­I think I’ll go to bed.  Pray,” I went on hurriedly, for I was conscious that she had raised her head and was looking at me in some surprise, “pray excuse me—­I’m very tired.”  So, while she yet stared at me, I turned away, and, mumbling a good night, went into my chamber, and closing the door, leaned against it, for my mind was sick with dread, and sorrow, and a great anguish; for now I knew that Charmian had lied to me—­my Virgil book had been moved from its usual place.