AN APOLOGUE
Two lovers once upon a time had planned a littlesummer-house in the form of an antique temple which itwas their purpose to consecrate to all manner of refinedand innocent enjoyments. There they would hold pleasantintercourse with one another and the circle of theirfamiliar friends； there they would give festivals of deliciousfruit； there they would hear lightsome music intermingledwith the strains of pathos which make joy more sweet；there they would read poetry and fiction and permit theirown minds to flit away in day-dreams and romance； there，in short—for why should we shape out the vague sunshineof their hopes？ —there all pure delights were to clusterlike roses among the pillars of the edifice and blossomever new and spontaneously.
So one breezy and cloudless afternoon Adam Forresterand Lilias Fay set out upon a ramble over the wide estatewhich they were to possess together， seeking a proper sitefor their temple of happiness. They were themselves afair and happy spectacle， fit priest and priestess for sucha shrine， although， making poetry of the pretty name ofLilias， Adam Forrester was wont to call her “Lily” becauseher form was as fragile and her cheek almost as pale. Asthey passed hand in hand down the avenue of droopingelms that led from the portal of Lilias Fay’s paternalmansion they seemed to glance like winged creaturesthrough the strips of sunshine， and to scatter brightnesswhere the deep shadows fell.
But， setting forth at the same time with this youthfulpair， there was a dismal figure wrapped in a black velvetcloak that might have been made of a coffin-pall， and witha sombre hat such as mourners wear drooping its broadbrim over his heavy brows. Glancing behind them， thelovers well knew who it was that followed， but wishedfrom their hearts that he had been elsewhere， as being acompanion so strangely unsuited to their joyous errand. Itwas a near relative of Lilias Fay， an old man by the name ofWalter Gascoigne， who had long labored under the burdenof a melancholy spirit which was sometimes maddenedinto absolute insanity and always had a tinge of it. Whata contrast between the young pilgrims of bliss and theirunbidden associate！ They looked as if moulded of heaven’ssunshine and he of earth’s gloomiest shade； they flittedalong like Hope and Joy roaming hand in hand throughlife， while his darksome figure stalked behind， a type of allthe woeful influences which life could fling upon them.
But the three had not gone far when they reached a spotthat pleased the gentle Lily， and she paused.
“What sweeter place shall we find than this？” said she.
“Why should we seek farther for the site of our temple？”
It was indeed a delightful spot of earth， thoughundistinguished by any very prominent beauties， beingmerely a nook in the shelter of a hill， with the prospectof a distant lake in one direction and of a church-spire inanother. There were vistas and pathways leading onwardand onward into the green woodlands and vanishing awayin the glimmering shade. The temple， if erected here，would look toward the west； so that the lovers could shapeall sorts of magnificent dreams out of the purple， violetand gold of the sunset sky， and few of their anticipatedpleasures were dearer than this sport of fantasy.
“Yes，” said Adam Forrester； “we might seek all day andfind no lovelier spot. We will build our temple here.”
But their sad old companion， who had taken his stand onthe very site which they proposed to cover with a marblefloor， shook his head and frowned， and the young man andthe Lily deemed it almost enough to blight the spot anddesecrate it for their airy temple that his dismal figure hadthrown its shadow there. He pointed to some scatteredstones， the remnants of a former structure， and to flowerssuch as young girls delight to nurse in their gardens， butwhich had now relapsed into the wild simplicity of nature.
“Not here，” cried old Walter Gascoigne. “Here， longago， other mortals built their temple of happiness； seekanother site for yours.”
“What！” exclaimed Lilias Fay. “Have any ever plannedsuch a temple save ourselves？”
“Poor child！” said her gloomy kinsman. “In one shapeor other every mortal has dreamed your dream.” Then hetold the lovers， how—not， indeed， an antique temple， buta dwelling—had once stood there， and that a dark-cladguest had dwelt among its inmates， sitting for ever at thefireside and poisoning all their household mirth.
Under this type Adam Forrester and Lilias saw that theold man spake of sorrow. He told of nothing that mightnot be recorded in the history of almost every household，and yet his hearers felt as if no sunshine ought to fall upona spot where human grief had left so deep a stain—or， atleast， that no joyous temple should be built there.
“This is very sad，” said the Lily， sighing.
“Well， there are lovelier spots than this，” said Adam Forrester，soothingly— “spots which sorrow has not blighted.”
So they hastened away， and the melancholy Gascoignefollowed them， looking as if he had gathered up all thegloom of the deserted spot and was bearing it as a burdenof inestimable treasure. But still they rambled on， andsoon found themselves in a rocky dell through the midstof which ran a streamlet with ripple and foam and acontinual voice of inarticulate joy. It was a wild retreatwalled on either side with gray precipices which wouldhave frowned somewhat too sternly had not a profusionof green shrubbery rooted itself into their crevices andwreathed gladsome foliage around their solemn brows.
But the chief joy of the dell was in the little stream whichseemed like the presence of a blissful child with nothingearthly to do save to babble merrily and disport itself， andmake every living soul its playfellow， and throw the sunnygleams of its spirit upon all.
“Here， here is the spot！” cried the two lovers， with onevoice， as they reached a level space on the brink of a smallcascade. “This glen was made on purpose for our temple.”
