And so it was with Kenneth; for the opinions, the feelings, the sentiments of Lily, had ever been but the mirror of his own; and again and again, by those glances which never pencil drew nor pen portrayed, he told her that she was dearer to him than all the world beside.
So they dreamed on, this pure and happy pair of loving hearts; the old oaks shook their rustling leaves above them; the hawthorn put forth its sweet perfume, and the Dee murmured complacently by.
Oh, they were so happy! so united—so one in thought, in heart, and impulse!
Reclined on Kenneth's breast, Lily lay half embraced and half entranced, with her eyes fixed on the still waters of the flowing stream, and the thick green coppice, which cast a shadow on its surface. Suddenly her eyes dilated with terror; her breast heaved; a voiceless cry arose to her lips, and died there.
The brass muzzle of a carbine glittered among the thick alders opposite; and a fierce eye glared along the polished barrel. She had only time to utter a shriek, and throw herself as a shield before Kenneth, when a red flash broke from among the green leaves; the report rang with a hundred reverberations in the copsewood glen, and the beautiful Lily Donaldson fell on the bosom of her lover, a corpse, with blood flowing in a torrent from her lips.
Who could paint the terror, the despair, of Kenneth?
With glaring eyes and outstretched arms, he stood for a moment like a statue of horror. His first impulse was to dash across the stream; to pierce the thicket, and reach the heart of her destroyer; his second to fling himself by her side, and endeavour to recall the life which had too surely fled for ever.
Entering her left shoulder, the ball intended for his heart had pierced that of Lily, and her pure spirit had departed to its Creator.
* * * *
From that hour poor Kenneth was a sad and silent mourner.