That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening itbegan to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair andpromising. I was out on the hill with the reapers. A light windswept over the corn, and all nature laughed in the sunshine. Thelark was rejoicing among the silvery floating clouds. The laterain had so sweetly freshened and cleared the air, and washed thesky, and left such glittering gems on branch and blade, that noteven the farmers could have the heart to blame it. But no ray ofsunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could freshen it; nothingcould fill the void my faith, and hope, and joy in Helen Graham hadleft, or drive away the keen regrets and bitter dregs of lingeringlove that still oppressed it.

While I stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on theundulating swell of the corn, not yet disturbed by the reapers,something gently pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longerwelcome to my ears, aroused me with the startling words, - 'Mr.Markham, mamma wants you.'

'Wants me, Arthur?'

'Yes. Why do you look so queer?' said he, half laughing, halffrightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turningtowards him, - 'and why have you kept so long away? Come! Won'tyou come?'

'I'm busy just now,' I replied, scarce knowing what to answer.

He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speakagain the lady herself was at my side.

'Gilbert, I must speak with you!' said she, in a tone of suppressedvehemence.

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answerednothing.

'Only for a moment,' pleaded she. 'Just step aside into this otherfield.' She glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directinglooks of impertinent curiosity towards her. 'I won't keep you aminute.'

I accompanied her through the gap.

'Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,' said she,pointing to some that were gleaming at some distance under thehedge along which we walked. The child hesitated, as if unwillingto quit my side. 'Go, love!' repeated she more urgently, and in atone which, though not unkind, demanded prompt obedience, andobtained it.

'Well, Mrs. Graham?' said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I sawshe was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in mypower to torment her.

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to theheart; and yet it made me smile.

'I don't ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,' said she, withbitter calmness: 'I know it too well; but though I could seemyself suspected and condemned by every one else, and bear it withcalmness, I cannot endure it from you. - Why did you not come tohear my explanation on the day I appointed to give it?'

'Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would havetold me - and a trifle more, I imagine.'

'Impossible, for I would have told you all!' cried she,passionately - 'but I won't now, for I see you are not worthy ofit!'

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

'Why not, may I ask?'

She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornfulindignation.

'Because you never understood me, or you would not soon havelistened to my traducers - my confidence would be misplaced in you- you are not the man I thought you. Go! I won't care what youthink of me.'

She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment heras much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back aminute after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expectingto find me still beside her; and then she stood still, and cast onelook behind. It was a look less expressive of anger than of bitteranguish and despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect ofindifference, and affected to be gazing carelessly around me, and Isuppose she went on; for after lingering awhile to see if she wouldcome back or call, I ventured one more glance, and saw her a goodway off, moving rapidly up the field, with little Arthur running byher side and apparently talking as he went; but she kept her faceaverted from him, as if to hide some uncontrollable emotion. And Ireturned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon.It was evident she loved me - probably she was tired of Mr.Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved andreverenced her less to begin with, the preference might havegratified and amused me; but now the contrast between her outwardseeming and her inward mind, as I supposed, - between my former andmy present opinion of her, was so harrowing - so distressing to myfeelings, that it swallowed up every lighter consideration.

But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation shewould have given me - or would give now, if I pressed her for it -how much she would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuseherself. I longed to know what to despise, and what to admire inher; how much to pity, and how much to hate; - and, what was more,I would know. I would see her once more, and fairly satisfy myselfin what light to regard her, before we parted. Lost to me she was,for ever, of course; but still I could not bear to think that wehad parted, for the last time, with so much unkindness and miseryon both sides. That last look of hers had sunk into my heart; Icould not forget it. But what a fool I was! Had she not deceivedme, injured me - blighted my happiness for life? 'Well, I'll seeher, however,' was my concluding resolve, 'but not to-day: to-dayand to-night she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable asshe will: to-morrow I will see her once again, and know somethingmore about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it maynot. At any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the lifeshe has doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty someagitating thoughts.'

I did go on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after thebusiness of the day was concluded, that is, between six and seven;and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old Hall, andflaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to theplace a cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon thefeelings with which I approached the shrine of my former divinity -that spot teeming with a thousand delightful recollections andglorious dreams - all darkened now by one disastrous truth

Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress,for she was not there: but there was her desk left open on thelittle round table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laidupon it. Her limited but choice collection of books was almost asfamiliar to me as my own; but this volume I had not seen before. Itook it up. It was Sir Humphry Davy's 'Last Days of aPhilosopher,' and on the first leaf was written, 'FrederickLawrence.' I closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stoodfacing the door, with my back to the fire-place, calmly waiting herarrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I heard herstep in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I checkedit with an internal rebuke, and maintained my composure - outwardlyat least. She entered, calm, pale, collected.

'To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr. Markham?' said she,with such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but Ianswered with a smile, and impudently enough, -

'Well, I am come to hear your explanation.'

'I told you I would not give it,' said she. 'I said you wereunworthy of my confidence.'

'Oh, very well,' replied I, moving to the door.

'Stay a moment,' said she. 'This is the last time I shall see you:don't go just yet.'

I remained, awaiting her further commands.

'Tell me,' resumed she, 'on what grounds you believe these thingsagainst me; who told you; and what did they say?'

I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosomhad been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved toknow the worst, and determined to dare it too. 'I can crush thatbold spirit,' thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power,I felt disposed to dally with my victim like a cat. Showing herthe book that I still held, in my hand, and pointing to the name onthe fly-leaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I asked, - 'Do youknow that gentleman?'

'Of course I do,' replied she; and a sudden flush suffused herfeatures - whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it ratherresembled the latter. 'What next, sir?'

'How long is it since you saw him?'

'Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any othersubject?'

'Oh, no one! - it's quite at your option whether to answer or not.And now, let me ask - have you heard what has lately befallen thisfriend of yours? - because, if you have not - '

'I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham!' cried she, almost infuriatedat my manner. 'So you had better leave the house at once, if youcame only for that.'

'I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.'

'And I tell you I won't give it!' retorted she, pacing the room ina state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightlytogether, breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation fromher eyes. 'I will not condescend to explain myself to one that canmake a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led toentertain them.'

'I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,' returned I, droppingat once my tone of taunting sarcasm. 'I heartily wish I could findthem a jesting matter. And as to being easily led to suspect, Godonly knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been,perseveringly shutting my eyes and stopping my ears againsteverything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, tillproof itself confounded my infatuation!'

'What proof, sir?'

'Well, I'll tell you. You remember that evening when I was herelast?'

'I do.'

'Even then you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyesof a wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went ontrusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where Icould not comprehend. It so happened, however, that after I leftyou I turned back - drawn by pure depth of sympathy and ardour ofaffection - not daring to intrude my presence openly upon you, butunable to resist the temptation of catching one glimpse through thewindow, just to see how you were: for I had left you apparently ingreat affliction, and I partly blamed my own want of forbearanceand discretion as the cause of it. If I did wrong, love alone wasmy incentive, and the punishment was severe enough; for it was justas I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden withyour friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances,I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.'

'And how much of our conversation did you hear?'

'I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I didhear it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. Ialways said and thought, that I would never believe a word againstyou, unless I heard it from your own lips. All the hints andaffirmations of others I treated as malignant, baseless slanders;your own self-accusations I believed to be overstrained; and allthat seemed unaccountable in your position I trusted that you couldaccount for if you chose.'

Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one endof the chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, withher chin resting on her closed hand, her eyes - no longer burningwith anger, but gleaming with restless excitement - sometimesglancing at me while I spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, orfixed upon the carpet.

'You should have come to me after all,' said she, 'and heard what Ihad to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong towithdraw yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after suchardent protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reasonfor the change. You should have told me all-no matter howbitterly. It would have been better than this silence.'

'To what end should I have done so? You could not have enlightenedme further, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could youhave made me discredit the evidence of my senses. I desired ourintimacy to be discontinued at once, as you yourself hadacknowledged would probably be the case if I knew all; but I didnot wish to upbraid you, - though (as you also acknowledged) youhad deeply wronged me. Yes, you have done me an injury you cannever repair - or any other either - you have blighted thefreshness and promise of youth, and made my life a wilderness! Imight live a hundred years, but I could never recover from theeffects of this withering blow - and never forget it! Hereafter -You smile, Mrs. Graham,' said I, suddenly stopping short, checkedin my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold heractually smiling at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.

'Did I?' replied she, looking seriously up; 'I was not aware of it.If I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I haddone you. Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the barepossibility of that; it was for joy to find that you had some depthof soul and feeling after all, and to hope that I had not beenutterly mistaken in your worth. But smiles and tears are so alikewith me, they are neither of them confined to any particularfeelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.'

She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but Icontinued silent.

'Would you be very glad,' resumed she, 'to find that you weremistaken in your conclusions?'

'How can you ask it, Helen?'

'I don't say I can clear myself altogether,' said she, speaking lowand fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved withexcitement, - 'but would you be glad to discover I was better thanyou think me?'

'Anything that could in the least degree tend to restore my formeropinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, andalleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, wouldbe only too gladly, too eagerly received!' Her cheeks burned, andher whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She didnot speak, but flew to her desk, and snatching thence what seemed athick album or manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leavesfrom the end, and thrust the rest into my hand, saying, 'Youneedn't read it all; but take it home with you,' and hurried fromthe room. But when I had left the house, and was proceeding downthe walk, she opened the window and called me back. It was only tosay, - 'Bring it back when you have read it; and don't breathe aword of what it tells you to any living being. I trust to yourhonour.'

Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned away.I saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover herface with her hands. Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch thatrendered it necessary to seek relief in tears.

Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, Ihurried home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having firstprovided myself with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yet- then, shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate nointerruption; and sitting down before the table, opened out myprize and delivered myself up to its perusal - first hastilyturning over the leaves and snatching a sentence here and there,and then setting myself steadily to read it through.

I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course,peruse it with half the interest that I did, I know you would notbe satisfied with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shallhave the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here and there ofmerely temporary interest to the writer, or such as would serve toencumber the story rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhatabruptly, thus - but we will reserve its commencement for anotherchapter.