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Rh the deep shadows of the trees, while every open space was silver with the light of the moon—the hunter's moon, as the large bright orb of that month is called. The garden was close to the road, and the step and voice of the few passers-by were distinctly heard. Suddenly one went along singing: it was a young voice, but both air and words were sad. Charles caught the first verse:— O leave me to my sorrow, For my heart is oppress'd to-day! O leave me, and to-morrow Dark clouds will have pass'd away!

The song died in the distance; not so in the heart of the recluse. "I may," said the miserable slave of himself, "be left to my sorrow; but when will my dark clouds pass away? Never till they deepen into the night of death! Buoyant and reckless spirit of my youth, all ye thousand hopes that bore me up as with the wings of an eagle, where are ye now? The knowledge I acquired, the fame for which I burned, the wealth I so coveted—all mine, yet not mine! And must all that makes life desirable be purchased but by the loss of life? Is this the secret of existence? At what a price of wretchedness must even this miserable and monotonous life be bought! My poor Ellen, what must my absence seem to her!" As the image of his young and deserted wife rose before him in all its gentle beauty, a gush of