And now this purer, nobler image, reared upon the crumbled image of the former, engendered by no ideal dreams—no morbid fantasy, but which, by the force of its own glorious strength and beauty, had won its victory over her soul—must this be also doomed to perish—to fade away into a haunting shadow of the past?
Yes, Eustace Trevor must be to her as one dead—not absent!—the dream be dissipated, for the hope was vain on which it was founded: vain—and incompatible with the pure, calm hope it was now the desire of her heart to aspire.
Not very long, therefore, did Mary allow herself to indulge in the beguiling luxury of her solitary repose; but remembering that there were loving hearts at home awaiting her return, she aroused herself from the spirit of reverie which was stealing over her, and waiting but to pluck some few sprigs of the first white heath of the season, with one last, lingering look on the fading beauties of the landscape, she rose and turned to depart; but as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
"Still she stood with her lips apart,
And forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,
Whilst to her eyes and her cheeks, came the light and
The bloom of the morning."
For it was no dream—no deluding vision of her imagination out of which she was called to awake—a shadow indeed was upon her path, but it was the form of Eustace Trevor, which in its noble reality stood before her!
The conversation which ensued was not so lengthened as that which had taken place between Edward Temple and Mary Seaham, on that same spot some six years ago; but need we say that its issue was of a very different character, and that this time Eustace did not descend the hill alone.
Mr. Wynne was waiting at the gate of Glan Pennant, when at length the stately figure of his friend, and leaning on his arm the fair and fragile form of Mary,
"The dew on the plaid, and the tear in her e'e,"
appeared in sight.