| CHAPTER I |
| CHAPTER II |
| CHAPTER III |
| CHAPTER IV |
| CHAPTER V |
| CHAPTER VI |
| CHAPTER VII |
| CHAPTER VIII |
| CHAPTER IX |
| CHAPTER X |
| CHAPTER XI |
| CHAPTER XII |
A narrow grave-yard in the heart of a bustling, indifferent city, seen from thewindows of a gloomy-looking inn, is at no time an object of enliveningsuggestion; and the spectacle is not at its best when the mouldy tombstones andfunereal umbrage have received the ineffectual refreshment of a dull, moistsnow-fall. If, while the air is thickened by this frosty drizzle, the calendarshould happen to indicate that the blessed vernal season is already six weeksold, it will be admitted that no depressing influence is absent from the scene.This fact was keenly felt on a certain 12th of May, upwards of thirty yearssince, by a lady who stood looking out of one of the windows of the best hotelin the ancient city of Boston. She had stood there for half an hour—stoodthere, that is, at intervals; for from time to time she turned back into theroom and measured its length with a restless step. In the chimney-place was ared-hot fire which emitted a small blue flame; and in front of the fire, at atable, sat a young man who was busily plying a pencil. He had a number ofsheets of paper cut into small equal squares, and he was apparently coveringthem with pictorial designs—strange-looking figures. He worked rapidlyand attentively, sometimes threw back his head and held out his drawing atarm’s-length, and kept up a soft, gay-sounding humming and whistling. Thelady brushed past him in her walk; her much-trimmed skirts were voluminous. Shenever dropped her eyes upon his work; she only turned them, occasionally, asshe passed, to a mirror suspended above the toilet-table on the other side ofthe room. Here she paused a moment, gave a pinch to her waist with her twohands, or raised these members—they were very plump and pretty—tothe multifold braids of her hair, with a movement half caressing, halfcorrective. An attentive observer might have fancied that during these periodsof desultory self-inspection her face forgot its melancholy; but as soon as sheneared the window again it began to proclaim that she was a very ill-pleasedwoman. And indeed, in what met her eyes there was little to be pleased with.The window-panes were battered by the sleet; the head-stones in the grave-yardbeneath seemed to be holding themselves askance to keep it out of their faces.A tall iron railing protected them from the street, and on the other side ofthe railing an assemblage of Bostonians were trampling about in the liquidsnow. Many of them were looking up and down; they appeared to be waiting forsomething. From time to time a strange vehicle drew near to the place wherethey stood,—such a vehicle as the lady at the window, in spite of aconsiderable acquaintance with human inve