In external appearance Mr. Gilmore was the exact opposite of the conventional idea of an old lawyer.  His complexion was florid—­ his white hair was worn rather long and kept carefully brushed—­ his black coat, waistcoat, and trousers fitted him with perfect neatness—­his white cravat was carefully tied, and his lavender-coloured kid gloves might have adorned the hands of a fashionable clergyman, without fear and without reproach.  His manners were pleasantly marked by the formal grace and refinement of the old school of politeness, quickened by the invigorating sharpness and readiness of a man whose business in life obliges him always to keep his faculties in good working order.  A sanguine constitution and fair prospects to begin with—­a long subsequent career of creditable and comfortable prosperity—­a cheerful, diligent, widely-respected old age—­such were the general impressions I derived from my introduction to Mr. Gilmore, and it is but fair to him to add, that the knowledge I gained by later and better experience only tended to confirm them.

I left the old gentleman and Miss Halcombe to enter the house together, and to talk of family matters undisturbed by the restraint of a stranger’s presence.  They crossed the hall on their way to the drawing-room, and I descended the steps again to wander about the garden alone.

My hours were numbered at Limmeridge House—­my departure the next morning was irrevocably settled—­my share in the investigation which the anonymous letter had rendered necessary was at an end.  No harm could be done to any one but myself if I let my heart loose again, for the little time that was left me, from the cold cruelty of restraint which necessity had forced me to inflict upon it, and took my farewell of the scenes which were associated with the brief dream-time of my happiness and my love.

I turned instinctively to the walk beneath my study-window, where I had seen her the evening before with her little dog, and followed the path which her dear feet had trodden so often, till I came to the wicket gate that led into her rose garden.  The winter bareness spread drearily over it now.  The flowers that she had taught me to distinguish by their names, the flowers that I had taught her to paint from, were gone, and the tiny white paths that led between the beds were damp and green already.  I went on to the avenue of trees, where we had breathed together the warm fragrance of August evenings, where we had admired together the myriad combinations of shade and sunlight that dappled the ground at our feet.  The leaves fell about me from the groaning branches, and the earthy decay in the atmosphere chilled me to the bones.  A little farther on, and I was out of the grounds, and following the lane that wound gently upward to the nearest hills.  The old felled tree by the wayside, on which we had sat to rest, was sodden with rain, and the tuft of ferns and grasses which I had drawn for her, nestling under