I now began to note a change in the habits of Catherine Weir.  As far as I remember, I had never up to this time seen her out of her own house, except in church, at which she had been a regular attendant for many weeks.  Now, however, I began to meet her when and where I least expected—­I do not say often, but so often as to make me believe she went wandering about frequently.  It was always at night, however, and always in stormy weather.  The marvel was, not that a sick woman could be there—­for a sick woman may be able to do anything; but that she could do so more than once—­that was the marvel.  At the same time, I began to miss her from church.

Possibly my reader may wonder how I came to have the chance of meeting any one again and again at night and in stormy weather.  I can relieve him from the difficulty.  Odd as it will appear to some readers, I had naturally a predilection for rough weather.  I think I enjoyed fighting with a storm in winter nearly as much as lying on the grass under a beech-tree in summer.  Possibly this assertion may seem strange to one likewise who has remarked the ordinary peaceableness of my disposition.  But he may have done me the justice to remark at the same time, that I have some considerable pleasure in fighting the devil, though none in fighting my fellow-man, even in the ordinary form of disputation in which it is not heart’s blood, but soul’s blood, that is so often shed.  Indeed there are many controversies far more immoral, as to the manner in which they are conducted, than a brutal prize-fight.  There is, however, a pleasure of its own in conflict; and I have always experienced a certain indescribable, though I believe not at all unusual exaltation, even in struggling with a well-set, thoroughly roused storm of wind and snow or rain.  The sources of this by no means unusual delight, I will not stay to examine, indicating only that I believe the sources are deep.—­I was now quite well, and had no reason to fear bad consequences from the indulgence of this surely innocent form of the love of strife.

But I find I must give another reason as well, if I would be thoroughly honest with my reader.  The fact was, that as I had recovered strength, I had become more troubled and restless about Miss Oldcastle.  I could not see how I was to make any progress towards her favour.  There seemed a barrier as insurmountable as intangible between her and me.  The will of one woman came between and parted us, and that will was as the magic line over which no effort of will or strength could enable the enchanted knight to make a single stride.  And this consciousness of being fettered by insensible and infrangible bonds, this need of doing something with nothing tangible in the reach of the outstretched hand, so worked upon my mind, that it naturally sought relief, as often as the elemental strife arose, by mingling unconstrained with the tumult of the night.—­Will my readers find it hard to believe that this disquietude of mind should gradually sink away as the hours of Saturday glided down into night, and the day of my best labour drew nigh?  Or will they answer, “We believe it easily; for then you could at least see the lady, and that comforted you?” Whatever it was that quieted me, not the less have I to thank God for it.