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st　thought；　and　I　expected　it　would　soon　vanish。　It　burnt　on；　however；　quite　steadily；　neither　receding　nor　advancing。　“Is　it；　then；　a　bonfire　just　kindled？”　I　questioned。　I　watched　to　see　whether　it　would　spread：　but　no；　as　it　did　not　diminish；　so　it　did　not　enlarge。　“It　may　be　a　candle　in　a　house；”　I　then　conjectured；　“but　if　so；　I　can　never　reach　it。　It　is　much　too　far　away：　and　were　it　within　a　yard　of　me；　what　would　it　avail？　I　should　but　knock　at　the　door　to　have　it　shut　in　my　face。”
And　I　sank　down　where　I　stood；　and　hid　my　face　against　the　ground。　I　lay　still　a　while：　the　night…wind　swept　over　the　hill　and　over　me；　and　died　moaning　in　the　distance；　the　rain　fell　fast；　wetting　me　afresh　to　the　skin。　Could　I　but　have　stiffened　to　the　still　frost—　the　friendly　numbness　of　death—it　might　have　pelted　on；　I　should　not　have　felt　it；　but　my　yet　living　flesh　shuddered　at　its　chilling　influence。　I　rose　ere　long。
The　light　was　yet　there；　shining　dim　but　constant　through　the　rain。　I　tried　to　walk　again：　I　dragged　my　exhausted　limbs　slowly　towards　it。　It　led　me　aslant　over　the　hill；　through　a　wide　bog；　which　would　have　been　impassable　in　winter；　and　was　splashy　and　shaking　even　now；　in　the　height　of　summer。　Here　I　fell　twice；　but　as　often　I　rose　and　rallied　my　faculties。　This　light　was　my　forlorn　hope：　I　must　gain　it。
Having　crossed　the　marsh；　I　saw　a　trace　of　white　over　the　moor。　I　approached　it；　it　was　a　road　or　a　track：　it　led　straight　up　to　the　light；　which　now　beamed　from　a　sort　of　knoll；　amidst　a　clump　of　trees—firs；　apparently；　from　what　I　could　distinguish　of　the　character　of　their　forms　and　foliage　through　the　gloom。　My　star　vanished　as　I　drew　near：　some　obstacle　had　intervened　between　me　and　it。　I　put　out　my　hand　to　feel　the　dark　mass　before　me：　I　discriminated　the　rough　stones　of　a　low　wall—above　it；　something　like　palisades；　and　within；　a　high　and　prickly　hedge。　I　groped　on。　Again　a　whitish　object　gleamed　before　me：　it　was　a　gate—a　wicket；　it　moved　on　its　hinges　as　I　touched　it。　On　each　side　stood　a　sable　bush…holly　or　yew。
Entering　the　gate　and　passing　the　shrubs；　the　silhouette　of　a　house　rose　to　view；　black；　low；　and　rather　long；　but　the　guiding　light　shone　nowhere。　All　was　obscurity。　Were　the　inmates　retired　to　rest？　I　feared　it　must　be　so。　In　seeking　the　door；　I　turned　an　angle：　there　shot　out　the　friendly　gleam　again；　from　the　lozenged　panes　of　a　very　small　latticed　window；　within　a　foot　of　the　ground；　made　still　smaller　by　the　growth　of　ivy　or　some　other　creeping　plant；　whose　leaves　clustered　thick　over　the　portion　of　the　house　wall　in　which　it　was　set。　The　aperture　was　so　screened　and　narrow；　that　curtain　or　shutter　had　been　deemed　unnecessary；　and　when　I　stooped　down　and　put　aside　the　spray　of　foliage　shooting　over　it；　I　could　see　all　within。　I　could　see　clearly　a　room　with　a　sanded　floor；　clean　scoured；　a　dresser　of　walnut；　with　pewter　plates　ranged　in　rows；　reflecting　the　redness　and　radiance　of　a　glowing　peat…fire。　I　could　see　a　clock；　a　white　deal　table；　some　chairs。　The　candle；　whose　ray　had　been　my　beacon；　burnt　on　the　table；　and　by　its　light　an　elderly　woman；　somewhat　rough…looking；　but　scrupulously　clean；　like　all　about　her；　was　knitting　a　stocking。
I　noticed　these　objects　cursorily　only—in　them　there　was　nothing　extraordinary。　A　group　of　more　interest　appeared　near　the　hearth；　sitting　still　amidst　the　rosy　peace　and　warmth　suffusing　it。　Two　young；　graceful　women—ladies　in　every　point—sat；　one　in　a　low　rocking…chair；　the　other　on　a　lower　stool；　both　wore　deep　mourning　of　crape　and　bombazeen；　which　sombre　garb　singularly　set　off　very　fair　necks　and　faces：　a　large　old　pointer　dog　rested　its　massive　head　on　the　knee　of　one　girl—in　the　lap　of　the　other　was　cushioned　a　black　cat。
A　strange　place　was　this　humble　kitchen　for　such　occupants！　Who　were　they？　They　could　not　be　the　daughters　of　the　elderly　person　at　the　table；　for　she　looked　like　a　rustic；　and　they　were　all　delicacy　and　cultivation。　I　had　nowhere　seen　such　faces　as　theirs：　and　yet；　as　I　gazed　on　them；　I　seemed　intimate　with　every　lineament。　I　cannot　call　them　handsome—they　were　too　pale　and　grave　for　the　word：　as　they　each　bent　over　a　book；　they　looked　thoughtful　almost　to　severity。　A　stand　between　them　supported　a　second　candle　and　two　great　volumes；　to　paring　them；　seemingly；　with　the　smaller　books　they　held　in　their　hands；　like　people　consulting　a　dictionary　to　aid　them　in　the　task　of　translation。　This　scene　was　as　silent　as　if　all　the　figures　had　been　shadows　and　the　firelit　apartment　a　picture：　so　hushed　was　it；　I　could　hear　the　cinders　fall　from　the　grate；　the　clock　tick　in　its　obscure　corner；　and　I　even　fancied　I　could　distinguish　the　click…　click　of　the　woman’s　knitting…needles。　When；　therefore；　a　voice　broke　the　strange　stillness　at　last；　it　was　audible　enough　to　me。
“Listen；　Diana；”　said　one　of　the　absorbed　students；　“Franz　and　old　Daniel　are　together　in　the　night…time；　and　Franz　is　telling　a　dream　from　which　he　has　awakened　in　terror—listen！”　And　in　a　low　voice　she　read　something；　of　which　not　one　word　was　intelligible　to　me；　for　it　was　in　an　unknown　tongue—neither　French　nor　Latin。　Whether　it　were　Greek　or　German　I　could　not　tell。
“That　is　strong；”　she　said；　when　she　had　finished：　“I　relish　it。”　The　other　girl；　who　had　lifted　her　head　to　listen　to　her　sister；　repeated；　while　she　gazed　at　the　fire；　a　line　of　what　had　been　read。　At　a　later　day；　I　knew　the　language　and　the　book；　therefore；　I　will　here　quote　the　line：　though；　when　I　first　heard　it；　it　was　only　like　a　stroke　on　sounding　brass　to　me—conveying　no　meaning：—
“‘Da　trat　hervor　Einer；　anzusehen　wie　die　Sternen　Nacht。’　Good！　good！”　she　exclaimed；　while　her　dark　and　deep　eye　sparkled。　“There　you　have　a　dim　and　mighty　archangel　fitly　set　before　you！　The　line　is　worth　a　hundred　pages　of　fustian。　‘Ich　wage　die　Gedanken　in　der　Schale　meines　Zornes　und　die　Werke　mit　dem　Gewichte　meines　Grimms。’　I　like　it！”
Both　were　again　silent。
“Is　there　ony　country　where　they　talk　i’　that　way？”　asked　the　old　woman；　looking　up　from　her　knitting。
“Yes；　Hannah—a　far　larger　country　than　England；　where　they　talk　in　no　other　way。”
“Well；　for　sure　case；　I　knawn’t　how　they　can　understand　t’　one　t’other：　and　if　either　o’　ye　went　there；　ye　could　tell　what　they　said；　I　guess？”
“We　could　probably　tell　something　of　what　they　said；　but　not　all—　for　we　are　not　as　clever　as　you　think　us；　Hannah。　We　don’t　speak　German；　and　we　cannot　read　it　without　a　dictionary　to　help　us。”
“And　what　good　does　it　do　you？”
“We　mean　to　teach　it　some　time—or　at　least　the　elements；　as　they　say；　and　then　we　shall　get　more　money　than　we　do　now。”
“Varry　like：　but　give　ower　studying；　ye’ve　done　enough　for　to…　night。”
“I　think　we　have：　at　least　I’m　tired。　Mary；　are　you？”
“Mortally：　after　all；　it’s　tough　work　fagging　away　at　a　language　with　no　master　but　a　lexicon。”
“It　is；　especially　such　a　language　as　this　crabbed　but　glorious　Deutsch。　I　wonder　when　St。　John　will　e　home。”
“Surely　he　will　not　be　long　now：　it　is　just　ten　（looking　at　a　little　gold　watch　she　drew　from　her　girdle）。　It　rains　fast；　Hannah：　will　you　have　the　goodness　to　look　at　the　fire　in　the　parlour？”
The　woman　rose：　she　opened　a　door；　through　which　I　dimly　saw　a　passage：　soon　I　heard　her　stir　a　fire　in　an　inner　room；　she　presently　came　back。
“Ah；　childer！”　said　she；　“it　fair　troubles　me　to　go　into　yond’　room　now：　it　looks　so　lonesome　wi’　the　chair　empty　and　set　back　in　a　corner。”
She　wiped　her　eyes　with　her　apron：　the　two　girls；　grave　before；　looked　sad　now。
“But　he　is　in　a　better　place；”　continued　Hannah：　“we　shouldn’t　wish　him　here　again。　And　then；　nobody　need　to　have　a　quieter　death　nor　he　had。”
“You　say　he　never　mentioned　us？”　inquired　one　of　the　ladies。
“He　hadn’t　time；　bairn：　he　was　gone　in　a　minute；　was　your　father。　He　had　been　a　bit　ailing　like　the　day　before；　but　naught　to　signify；　and　when　Mr。　St。　John　asked　if　he　would　like　either　o’　ye　to　be　sent　for；　he　fair　laughed　at　him。　He　began　again　with　a　bit　of　a　heaviness　in　his　head　the　next　day—that　is；　a　fortnight　sin’—and　he　went　to　sleep　and　niver　wakened：　he　wor　a’most　stark　when　your　brother　went　into　t’　chamber　and　fand　him。　Ah；　childer！　that’s　t’　last　o’　t’　old　stock—for　ye　and　Mr。　St。　John　is　like　of　different　soart　to　them　‘at’s　gone；　for　all　your　mother　wor　mich　i’　your　way；　and　a’most　as　book…learned。　She　wor　the　pictur’　o’　ye；　Mary：　Diana　is　more　like　your　father。”
I　thought　them　so　similar　I　could　not　tell　where　the　old　servant　（for　such　I　now　concluded　her　to　be）　saw　the　difference。　Both　were　fair　plexioned　and　slenderly　made；　both　possessed　faces　full　of　distinction　and　intelligence。　One；　to　be　sure；　had　hair　a　shade　darker　than　the　other；　and　there　was　a　difference　in　their　style　of　wearing　it；　Mary’s　pale　brown　locks　were　parted　and　braided　smooth：　Diana’s　duskier　tresses　covered　her　neck　with　thick　curls。　The　clock　struck　ten。
“Ye’ll　want　your　supper；　I　am　sure；”　observed　Hannah；　“and　so　will　Mr。　St。　John　when　he　es　in。”
And　she　proceeded　to　prepare　the　meal。　The　ladies　rose；　they　seemed　about　to　withdraw　to　the　parlour。　Till　this　moment；　I　had　been　so　intent　on　watching　them；　their　appearance　and　conversation　had　excited　in　me　so　keen　an　interest；　I　had　half…forgotten　my　own　wretched　position：　now　it　recurred　to　me。　More　desolate；　more　desperate　than　ever；　it　seemed　from　contrast。　And　how　impossible　did　it　appear　to　touch　the　inmates　of　this　house　with　concern　on　my　behalf；　to　make　them　believe　in　the　truth　of　my　wants　and　woes—to　induce　them　to　vouchsafe　a　rest　for　my　wanderings！　As　I　groped　out　the　door；　and　knocked　at　it　hesitatingly；　I　felt　that　last　idea　to　be　a　mere　chimera。　Hannah　opened。
“What　do　you　want？”　she　inquired；　in　a　voice　of　surprise；　as　she　surveyed　me　by　the　light　of　the　candle　she　held。
“May　I　speak　to　your　mistresses？”　I　said。
“You　had　better　tell　me　what　you　have　to　say　to　them。　Where　do　you　e　from？”
“I　am　a　stranger。”
“What　is　your　business　here　at　this　hour？”
“I　want　a　night’s　shelter　in　an　out…house　or　anywhere；　and　a　morsel　of　bread　to　eat。”
Distrust；　the　very　feeling　I　dreaded；　appeared　in　Hannah’s　face。　“I’ll　give　you　a　piece　of　bread；”　she　said；　after　a　pause；　“but　we　can’t　take　in　a　vagrant　to　lodge。　It　isn’t　likely。”
“Do　let　me　speak　to　your　mistresses。”
“No；　not　I。　What　can　they　do　for　you？　You　should　not　be　roving　about　now；　it　looks　very　ill。”
“But　where　shall　I　go　if　you　drive　me　away？　What　shall　I　do？”
“Oh；　I’ll　warrant　you　know　where　to　go　and　what　to　do。　Mind　you　don’t　do　wrong；　that’s　all。　Here　is　a　penny；　now　go—”
“A　penny　cannot　feed　me；　and　I　have　no　strength　to　go　farther。　Don’t　shut　the　door：…　oh；　don’t；　for　God’s　sake！”
“I　must；　the　rain　is　driving　in—”
“Tell　the　young　ladies。　Let　me　see　them…　”
“Indeed；　I　will　not。　You　are　not　what　you　ought　to　be；　or　you　wouldn’t　make　such　a　noise。　Move　off。”
“But　I　must　die　if　I　am　turned　away。”
“Not　you。　I’m　fear’d　you　have　some　ill　plans　agate；　that　bring　you　about　folk’s　houses　at　this　time　o’　night。　If　you’ve　any　followers—housebreakers　or　such　like—anywhere　near；　you　may　tell　them　we　are　not　by　ourselves　in　the　house；　we　have　a　gentleman；　and　dogs；　and　guns。”　Here　the　honest　but　inflexible　servant　clapped　the　door　to　and　bolted　it　within。
This　was　the　climax。　A　pang　of　exquisite　suffering—a　throe　of　true　despair—rent　and　heaved　my　heart。　Worn　out；　indeed；　I　was；　not　another　step　could　I　stir。　I　sank　on　the　wet　doorstep：　I　groaned—　I　wrung　my　hands—I　wept　in　utter　anguish。　Oh；　this　spectre　of　death！　Oh；　this　last　hour；　approaching　in　such　horror！　Alas；　this　isolation—this　banishment　from　my　kind！　Not　only　the　anchor　of　hope；　but　the　footing　of　fortitude　was　gone—at　least　for　a　moment；　but　the　last　I　soon　endeavoured　to　regain。
“I　can　but　die；”　I　said；　“and　I　believe　in　God。　Let　me　try　to　wait　His　will　in　silence。”
These　words　I　not　only　thought；　but　uttered；　and　thrusting　back　all　my　misery　into　my　heart；　I　made　an　effort　to　pel　it　to　remain　there—dumb　and　still。
“All　men　must　die；”　said　a　voice　quite　close　at　hand；　“but　all　are　not　condemned　to　meet　a　lingering　and　premature　doom；　such　as　yours　would　be　if　you　per