"And yet remember, Tom," said Mary, like the Spirit of Good warning me from evil, "unless we profit by our sufferings, unless the pains and penalties with which the past be chequered teach us to avoid that rock-ribbed shore, where so many human hopes and joys are wrecked and shattered, of what avail are they? Trials and heart-aches are not ordained for the mere purposes of temporary anguish; but as impressions from the hand of stern experience, intended to warn the wayfarer from the hidden shoal and quicksand. He who heeds them not must perish." "Ha! ha ha! Ha! ha! ha!" "There," hallooed I, in agony at the well-known laugh, and yet as unlike a laugh as a death-shriek. "Did you not hear that?" "I heard nothing unusual," replied Mary. "I am not mad," rejoined I; "I know you, myself, and all I see. Why doubt mine ears?" "Your words and looks are so strange and wild," returned she, alarmed, "that I can scarcely guess your meaning. But if a seared twig had only fallen from a tree, or a pebble in the brook, I must have heard it as well as you." "And-and," gasped I, "art certain no one mocked your words?" "Indeed, Tom, I am," said Mary, twining her arm around me, and pressing me to her bosom, as if I was a child afeard. "Not a sound," she continued, "but the cawing rook, and robin's whistle, break upon the ear thus early." "And yet, audible as your words now spoken," returned I, "fiend-like mirth, as if in triumph, echoed far and wide." "Think of it only as it is," she rejoined. "Your distempered mind is fraught with shadows of unreal evils; and when restored to a healthy tone-as by repose it will beyou, yourself, will ridicule the very causes of uneasiness. Go home, Tom," she continued, "and ere you close your eyes in slumber, pray that your resolutions may be strengthened, and that you may never again wander from the path of a good and sober life." "I will, I will,” said I. "Now, then, farewell," returned Mary. "Let us meet to-night under the old yewtree, in the churchyard, just at moonrise." A cold icy shudder thrilled through me at these words; but why I knew not. "In the churchyard at moonrise!" I repeated. "And why not there?" said Mary. “We have sat many a long hour under its dark waving shade, and talked of days to come, and of those long since past. Not far from its spreading branches, Tom, my good old mother sleeps the long, long sleep of death; and the greensward, covering her narrow grave, always, to me, looks more speckled than the rest with daisies, violets, and primroses. 'Tis a spot on which a blessing seems to have fallen, Tom, and there I would have you meet me, to kneel together in the soft and stilly hour, and place wherein the most debased and hardened feel the influence of mis-spent lives, to ask forgiveness from Him who never turns an unwilling ear from the penitent's petition." "There, then, I will meet you," replied I, somewhat consoled by Mary's kind and encouraging words; and yet, as we parted, a heavy load still weighed upon my heart. CHAPTER IV. "In full-orbed glory the majestic moon The desert circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girded by the sea. LONG had I slept. The moon's pale light was just tipping the tree-top as it bent in graceful measures to the wind, humming and whistling his winter tune through the stripped and leafless branches. In the chimney his hoarse breath roared, and creaked, and jarred against rickety casements, making old hinges squeak and doors to rattle with discordant noises. Upon throwing open the window of my cottage, the nipping cold fanned my hot brow with grateful freshness, and with |