“Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. . Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr.
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