No! I will not describe that scene; nor how pale the stately lady sat on the border of the green, sunny meadow! The hearts of some women tremble like leaves at every breath of love which reaches them, and then are still again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled¹ to rest. And such was the proud heart of Mary Ashburton. It had remained unmoved by the presence of this stranger; and the sound of his footsteps and his voice excited in it no emotion. He had deceived himself! Silently they walked homeward through the green meadow. The very sunshine was sad; and the rising wind, through the old ruin above them, sounded in his ears like a hollow laugh!  
Flemming went straight to his chamber². On the way, he passed the walnut⁴ trees under which he had first seen the face of Mary Ashburton. Involuntarily he closed his eyes. They were full of tears. O, there are places in this fair world, which we never wish to see again, however dear they may be to us! The towers of the old Franciscan convent never looked so gloomily as then, though the bright summer sun was shining full upon them.
 
In his chamber he found Berkley. He was looking out of the window, whistling.
 
"This evening I leave Interlachen forever," said Flemming, rather abruptly⁵. Berkley stared.
 
"Indeed! Pray what is the matter? You look as pale as a ghost!"
 
"And have good reason to look pale," replied Flemming bitterly. "Hoffmann says, in one of his note-books, that, on the eleventh of March, at half past eight o'clock, precisely⁶, he was an ass³. That is what I was this morning at half past ten o'clock, precisely, and am now, and I suppose always shall be."
 
He tried to laugh, but could not. He then related to Berkley the whole story, from beginning to end.
 
"This is a miserable⁷ piece of business!" exclaimed Berkley, when he had finished. "Strange enough! And yet I have long ceased to marvel⁸ at the caprices of women. Did not Pan captivate the chaste⁹ Diana? Did not Titania love Nick Bottom, with his ass's head? Do you think that maidens¹⁰' eyes are no longer touched with the juice of love-in-idleness! Take my word for it, she is in love with somebody else. There must be some reason for this. No; women never have any reasons, except their will. But never mind. Keep a stout¹¹ heart. Care killed a cat. After all,--what is she? Who is she? Only a--"
 
"Hush¹²! hush," exclaimed Flemming, in great excitement. "Not one word more, I beseech¹³ you. Do not think to console me, by depreciating¹⁴ her. She is very dear to me still; a beautiful, high-minded, noble woman."
 
"Yes," answered Berkley; "that is the waywith you all, you young men. You see a sweet face, or a something, you know not what, and flickering¹⁵ reason says, Good night; amen to common sense. The imagination invests the beloved object with a thousand superlative charms; furnishes her with all the purple and fine linen¹⁶, all the rich apparel and furniture, of human nature. I did the same when I was young. I was once as desperately¹⁷ in love as you are now; and went through all the
 
'Delicious deaths, soft exhalations
 
Of soul; dear and divine annihilations,
 
A thousand unknown rites¹⁸
 
Of joys, and rarified delights.'
 
I adored and was rejected. 'You are in love with certain attributes,' said the lady. 'Damn your attributes, Madam,' said I; 'I know nothing of attributes.' 'Sir,' said she, with dignity, 'you have been drinking.' So we parted. She was married afterwards to another, who knew something about attributes, I suppose. I have seen her once since, and only once. She had a baby in a yellow gown. I hate a baby in a yellow gown. How glad I am she did not marry me. One of these days, you will be glad you have been rejected. Take my word for it."
 
"All that does not prevent my lot from being a very melancholy¹⁹ one!" said Flemming sadly.
 
"O, never mind the lot," cried Berkley laughing, "so long as you don't get Lot's wife. If the cucumber is bitter, throw it away, as the philosopher Marcus Antoninus says, in his Meditations²⁰. Forget her, and all will be as if you had not known her."
 
"I shall never forget her," replied Flemming, rather solemnly. "Not my pride, but my affections, are wounded; and the wound is too deep ever to heal. I shall carry it with me always. I enter no more into the world, but will dwell only in the world of my own thoughts. All great and unusual occurrences, whether of joy or sorro............