with little stones, gathered at the brookside, whither we had gone to cool ourselves in the sultry noon of haying-time. Unlike all other ghosts, his spirit haunted an edifice, which, instead of being time-worn, and full of storied love, and joy, and sorrow, had never yet come into existence.

“Dear friend,” said I once to Hollingsworth, before leaving my sick-chamber,” I heartily wish that I could make your schemes my schemes, because it would be so great a happiness to find myself treading the same path with you. But I am afraid there is not stuff in me stern enough for a philanthropist, — or not in this peculiar direction, — or, at all events, not solely in this.

Can you bear with me, if such should prove to be the case?”