ject. Mark that; and know besides, since it is no longer possible to conceal the truth, that it was the form of Mary you saw; for I too saw her not four nights since. It is me, therefore, that it behoves to bring peace to her spirit; and this very night I was about to undertake the fearful task of consulting the witch."

"Then let us both go," said John, eagerly.

"Not so; I am better acquainted with her nature than you, for I have had recourse to her more than once, and know well the form in which she should be addressed."

"But," rejoined Trevanion hesitating," they say she has made a compact with the evil one; I thought not of that in my haste; and if so, can we apply to her? No, let us rather seek the good priest; it is to him we should unbosom ourselves."

But Mr Mordaunt was peremptory against this proposal. "I will not,' he said, "become the village talk, or have poor Mary's name, now half-forgotten, again bandied about from mouth to mouth; so urge me no farther, John, but leave a father to a father's duty, and do you meet me here again at midnight, when I will acquaint you with the result of my interview with the wise woman."

With some reluctance Trevanion ac.. ceded to Mr Mordaunt's proposal, and made his way back to the Hall, shaking all over with a fever of agitation and curiosity. At midnight, however, after his father and the other members of the househould had retired to rest, he returned to the cottage, where he found the old gentleman awaiting his arrival. He was in evident excitement, and kept muttering to himself, "well, it must be so, what is fated, cannot but come to pass; and if ever the finger of destiny was visible any where, it is in this case." So soon as he recognised John, he motioned him to a seat, and then going into the garden to see that no one was within hearing, he cautiously closed the door, and laying his hand on the young man's arm, while he looked him anxiously in the face, he said, "have you courage to hear what I shall communicate? If not, say so, and my lips shall be sealed."

“I fear nothing, sir; so say on. I am prepared to hear, and brave the worst."

"Well, then," resumed Mr Mor daunt, "I sought the witch, but she was aware of my visit ere my foot was within a hundred paces of her cell. She knew my errand too; the spirit of my child, she said, was ill at rest, but her disquiet was not without remedy, though that remedy could be revealed only by herself."

"By herself? I understand you not."

"And better perhaps that you should never understand me, for that which I have to say, is that which shall congeal your blood to ice. John, I fear your weakness, and will add no

more.

"Speak on, sir; in God's name speak on. I tell you, father of my first-my only love, that to procure rest to her pure spirit, who would have braved even death for me, I would make sacrifices a thousand times greater than any you can exact. Whom should I fear? What should I fear? Alas, fear and hope are alike over with me; so speak on, Mr Mordaunt, I conjure you."

"Then I will speak, John," exclaimed the old gentleman with ani mation. "Mary, as you know, rests not in consecrated ground; no prayer has been offered up above her grave; and such being the case, her vexed spirit yet walks the earth, and over such, she I have seen to-night has power."

Trevanion here turned deadly pale. "I feared so," said Mr Mordaunt, "I feared your nerves would shake."

"Proceed, I entreat you, sir."

"Well, that mysterious power which the wise woman possesses, she is willing to exert, and as the cause is a just and holy one, I have accepted her mediation. See here," he added, drawing forth a small yew branch, "this was given me by the witch herself; it is a charmed instrument of wondrous potency, and at certain seasons, and in cases like the present, has the power of compelling the grave to surrender up its dead.* Take it, John, for alas, not by me may the trial of its efficacy be made. In the hands

VOL. XLII. NO. CCLXI.

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"But," enquired Trevanion in a hesitating accent, "is it not a sinning in the eye of Heaven, to accept the mediation of such a malign spirit?" "Young man," replied Mr Mordaunt, "we but act in this pursuant to the scheme of Providence, as exemplified in creation. Do we not see the atmosphere purified by the dark agency of cloud and storm; and the languid powers of nature revived by the action of earthquake and volcano? Be assured, my boy, we need not be disturbed on this score, as in a few brief hours you yourself will be the first to acknowledge."

"I am convinced," replied Trevanion, and was about to declare his instant readiness to make the trial, when Mr Mordaunt interrupted him by saying, nay, but hear me out, John; for this instrument to be effective, it is imperative that you be conscious in your own heart of the most unbounded devotion to the memory of Mary. Have you this consciousness? Is the departed as dear to your thoughtslinked as closely with your feelings, as was the living? Is her memory a holy and august shrine, at which daily and nightly your heart does reverence:

And oh, John, when you shall see her stand at midnight before you; when the dead shall confront the living; and none be by to re-assure your fluttered spirits ;-will you then, out of your perfect love for her whose loss you deplore, dare to address her, and firmly abide her reply?"

"I will!" exclaimed the young man with energy. 66 Mary's image can never have terrors for me; it cannot be but that her voice will be gentle, and her countenance serene and lovely as in life."

"My dear boy," said the father, clasping his hands, while the tears fell fast from his eyes, "I no longer doubt your sincerity, and, thank Heaven, my poor child will at length know repose. Oh, John, you have made an old man happy-I mean, as happy as he can be on this side the grave. Go then, and a father's blessing go with you. To-morrow night, when the South Zeal clock strikes twelve, go to the abbey where you last parted from Mary; lay this charmed branch reve. rently on the abbot's tomb; then invoke the name of the departed, and wait the result. And now leave me, John; you have need of repose, and so too have I, for the events of this day have half maddened me," and so saying, Mr Mordaunt motioned Trevanion from the room, who instantly set out on his return to the Hall.

Though brave and quick-witted when circumstances demanded it, yet John's natural tendency was to the romantic and the imaginative; and though his late worldly experience had sobered his feelings in this respect, still they were "scotched not killed;" and the gloom by which he had been surrounded since his return home, Mary's death-his father's melancholy -the solitary character of the old Hall-and, above all, the mysterious figure which had twice encountered his gaze-brought them back in nearly

66

all their former intensity. But notwithstanding this, he was not their slave; far otherwise; his was the calm, resolved, and thoughtful air of one bent, at all hazards, on the accomplishment of some cherished purpose.

During the early part of the day, not liking to trust himself wholly to solitude, he remained with his father, whom he endeavoured to amuse by some further details of his adventures with the pirates; though, had the Baronet been less engrossed with his own sad thoughts than he was, he

would have discerned in his son's random attempts to divert him, evidences of a mind whose thoughts were constantly playing truant.

So passed the time-varied only by a short stroll with Sir Hugh in the park-till the dinner hour arrived, when John began to think the night would never draw on; and still more slowly did the lame hours limp on, when the west was rosy with sunset, and twilight began to frown along the lawn. From this period every moment seemed an age.

At last day closed; confirmed night approached; and John, just waiting till the clergyman of South Zeal en tered, as usual, to partake of supper with the Baronet, rose, under the pretext of retiring to his own chamber, and made his way towards the moor.

It was now nearly ten o'clock; the lights were all extinguished in the cottage windows of South Zeal, for the wearied peasantry had long since retired to rest; and with the exception of the occasional bark of a dog, or the startling rush of wings as the bat went whirring past him in the course of its flight round the elms on the village green, not a sound but that of Trevanion's heavy footsteps woke the echoes of night.

In a short time the young man had passed the village, and entered upon the long, shady lane which terminated at that part of the moor on whose edge the abbey stood. Myriads of glow worms lit their little lamps for him as he advanced, and the quiet toad crawled from his path, rustling with a gentle stir among the dead leaves that lay thick beneath the hedge on either side. Just as he came within sight of the ruin, the distant church-clock struck eleven. At this moment John fancied he heard footsteps before him, and looked about to see if aught was in sight; the gloom of the night, how. ever for the late moon was but just beginning to rise-prevented him from clearly distinguishing any object; and concluding that his ears had betrayed him, he seated himself for a few minutes on a bank, to collect his scattered thoughts, and then moved briskly forward, and soon reached the abbey, beyond which lay the moor blackening far and wide before him.

It was an imposing object, that forlorn pile, grey in years, standing sentinel over the graves of the dead, yet

itself momently dropping to decay above them. The dim haze of night deepened the awe with which Trevanion regarded it, by softening off its rugged features, and imparting a spectral aspect to its ruins. It was of considerable extent, and had once been the proudest structure in the district, but was now the mere "shade" of departed grandeur-the "skeleton of unfleshed humanity." The forecourt was choked up with weeds; the curiously carved windows overrun with moss and ivy; and the chapel was strewed with broken columns, which in their fall had crushed many of the sculptured effigies on the tombs. A small portion of the refectory alone remained in tolerable preservation; and on its paved floor lay a few halfburnt faggots and bits of charcoal, together with an old drinking-horn, which showed that a wandering band of gipsies had but lately held revel in it. Strange spot for merry-making, where every thing spoke of desolation and decay!

As with bowed head and "stealthy pace" the young man entered the crumbling edifice, he hardly dared draw breath, lest he might rouse strange echoes. Knowing well the localities, e stole his way on tip-toe to what had once formed the chapel, beneath whose floor the last Lord Abbot, and many of the monks, lay buried; where, lean ing against the fragment of a pillar, he awaited, with mingled sensations of awe and melancholy, the hour that should summon him in to the presence of the departed.

Oh, Night! mysterious, phantompeopled Night at whose bidding memory summons from their graves the feelings and the friends of other years-Night, spirit of many tones, how impressive is even thy lightest whisper! The very dropping of the dew from the ivied arches on the leafstrewn ground beneath startled John as though life were in it, and the wind sighing through the ruins, rung like a dirge in his ears. "What an utter deso. lation"-it was thus he communed with himself "breathes out from these old cloisters! Not a foot-fall, where once crowds bowed the knee to Heaven! I stand, the only living thing, among the unremembered dead. Well, pass but a few years, and I shall join their ranks-gladly, most gladly, for what is this world other than a vast ruin,

or we than spectres, who are doomed, perforce, to haunt its gloom a brief while, and vanish!"

The moon at this moment, forcing her way from behind a cloud, came streaming in through the broken windows, and pouring down a faint radiance on the Abbot's tomb, which was situated at the farther end of the chapel. The sight of this memento mori recalled John's wandering thoughts. "The hour draws on," he said" the hour that must-what a weight there is in the air! No! 'tis at my own heart. Strange fears beset me. What-what am I about to do? Eternal God, pardon me! And Mary-will she whom I am to summon from the world of shadows, rise before me with that gentle smile she ever wore in life? Oh, yes, there is memory beyond the grave, else wherefore that wan, beseeching figure that has already twice crossed my path? Spirit of my unforgotten love! let me but be the means of procuring for thee the repose of the tomb, and I care not how soon I lay my own head beneath it."

While absorbed in thoughts like these, Trevanion was suddenly startled by a faint sigh, that seemed breathed close at his elbow. At first he suspected that some one was concealed in the Abbey ; but a moment's reflection satisfied him that it was the mere moaning of the wind through the building.

Just then the distant church-clock struck twelve !

"It is the hour," exclaimed the youth, and trembling from head to foot with an emotion which he vainly strove to conceal, he drew the charmed branch from his breast, and, staggering towards the Abbot's tomb, deposited it thereon. This done, he cast a furtive glance about him, fearing-hoping he knew not what; and then, in a solemn voice, invoked the shade of Mary!

"I am here, John!" said a low, sweet voice; and at that instant the same form which he had twice beheld in the fir-grove, gliding from behind an adjacent pillar, stood a few paces

off him.

"Mary! - dear Mary!-dear in death, as in life!-speak, I conjure you, speak!" exclaimed John, stretching out his arms towards her.

The figure advanced silently towards him; a wan smile played round

its lips; a tear trembled in its eye; a soft, white hand gently clasped his.

"God of Heaven!" exclaimed the bewildered Trevanion, while his eyes seemed actually starting from their sockets with the intensity of his gaze; " am I awake? Can this indeed be possible? Yes, it is-it is the real living Mary that stands before me; and, overpowered by this startling conviction, he uttered a loud cry of ecstasy, and dropped lifeless at her feet.

Another figure now advanced from among the ruins. "Oh, father!father!" said Mary, the instant she beheld the new comer-"why did you persuade me to this? Why not have made the revelation in some more familiar form? You knew I was averse to all this mystery from the first ;" and, stooping down beside Trevanion, she endeavoured to raise him from the ground.

"Fear nothing, my child," replied Mr Mordaunt-" the first shock over, all will be well; sec already he revives! Come, John, rouse yourself, my boy. Speak to him, Mary."

The word "Mary" acted like a spell on Trevanion. He started from the ground, rubbed his eyes, to assure himself he was wide awake, and stood fixing a wild gaze now on Mr Mordaunt, and now on his daughter, as if he still doubted the evidence of his senses. In a brief space, however, he managed to recover something like self-possession; whereupon Mr Mordaunt, taking his arm within his, and accompanied by Mary, led him gently from the ruins.

On their way back to South Zeal, observing the half-distrustful glances which, even while she was hanging on his arm, John every now and then directed towards Mary, Mr Morduant, pitying the young man's bewildered state, proceeded, without further delay, to explain to him the reasons which had compelled him to act in so mysterious and apparently unaccountable

a manner.

"You are of course aware, my boy," he began, "that your intimacy with Mary was broken off by my express command. Though personally I had no objection, but, on the contrary, should have been proud to own you as a son-in-law, yet, when I found that your father-who, I have since had but too much occasion to feel, holds arbitrary sway over this district was averse to the match, my

pride was roused quite as much as his; and I did not hesitate an instant as to the line of conduct I ought to adopt. Well, you and Mary parted, and, a few days after, influenced by feelings with which I can readily sympathize, you quitted England for the New World.' No sooner were you gone, than your brother Edward, whose real character, I fear, you never knew till now, endeavoured to supplant you in the affections of my child."

John started at these words, as if a new light had suddenly broken in upon him. "This then," he exclaimed, "is the reason why he was so urgent in advising me to quit the country! Curses on but no, he is dead, and be all his sins forgiven."

"Nobly said, my boy." Mr Mordaunt then proceeded to state how, for months and months together, Edward Trevanion beset Mary with his dishonourable addresses; and how, when he found himself repulsed with deserved contempt, he had recourse, in his rage, to the Baronet, whom, by every species of insinuation and calumny, he endeavoured to prejudice against both father and daughter. "I regret, John," continued Mr Mordaunt, "to speak in this way of one so closely related to you, but I owe you a full explanation, and have therefore no alternative. My child here can bear testimony to the persecutions to which both of us were subjected daily by the Baronet, who, being our landlord, was never at a loss for the means of direct or indirect annoyance. Fortunately, about this time, your brother quitted the Hall on a visit to some sporting friends in the north, and we had an interval of quiet; but he returned within the year, and renewed his insulting addresses with more pertinacity than ever. Doubtless, you wonder why, under such circumstances, I did not quit South Zeal. Alas, my boy, I had not the means to do so, for by the villany of an agent at Exeter, I was robbed of the proceeds of a small estate which I had empowered him to sell, and involved in a lawsuit which reduced me to a state little short of beggary. Thus situated, I got into arrears with my landlord, who, still urged on by his son, threatened me not merely with ejection, but also with imprisonment. Then came your brother's final proposal. He would release me, he said,

from all my embarrassments, but only at the expense of my poor girl's good name."

John was here again about to burst into execrations against his brother, but Mr Mordaunt stopped him, and resumed as follows:-"Driven to desperation, but resolved at all risks to protect my child, I determined as a last resource-for I had no other means at command-to spread about a report of her death. Judge, John, to what an extremity father and daughter must have been reduced to adopt so strange-so distressing an alternative!"

Mary, who had been listening with evident feelings of uneasiness to Mr Mordaunt's explanation, here burst into tears. John's soothing and respectful attentions, however, soon reassured her, and the speaker proceeded with his narrative:-" When questioned on the subject of my child's death, my reply was, that she had suddenly disappeared, I knew not whither, but that I feared she had come to an untimely end in one of the numerous streams that intersect the moor. 'Twas an unworthy subterfuge, and I feel my cheek burn while I recall it; but oh, John, if you knew but half the agonies we were then undergoing-half the persecutions we were subjected to-half the privations to which we were reduced-you would cease to wonder that we had recourse to it. Previously, however, to setting this report afloat, I conveyed Mary secretly to the Witch's hut on Dartmoor you may remember, John, we never shared in your imaginative dread of its half-crazy tenant

where we found the poor creature at her last gasp, and at her request, I buried her at the foot of one of the tors, far removed from the hated neighbourhood of those from whom, in life, she had suffered so much. 'Twas a sad change for my child, but her moral courage sustained her through the trial; and desolate as was her dwelling, there, at least, she felt she was safe, for seldom did human footstep venture near that haunted quarter of the moor. Every day at night-fall I paid her a visit, bringing with me such conveniences as might render her new abode more habitable; and was delighted to find how soon she became reconciled to her lot when she found herself free from persecution. From this period I sustained