He
avoided going as long as possible, but the place needed the attention of
a master.
It was June when he went--bright, smiling, perfumed, sunny June--and
Beechgrove was at its best; the trees were in full foliage, the green
woods resounded with the song of birds, the gardens were filled with
flowers, the whole estate was blooming and fair. He took up his abode
there. It was soon noticed in the house that he avoided the
picture-gallery--nothing ever induced him to enter it. More than once,
as he was walking through the woods, his heartbeat and his face flushed;
there, beyond the trees lived his wife, his darling, from whom a fate
more cruel than death had parted him. His wife! The longing to see her
grew on him from day to day. She was so near him, yet so far away--she
was so fair, yet her beauty must all fade and die; it was not for him.
In time he began to think it strange that he had never heard anything of
her. He went about in the neighborhood, yet no one spoke of having seen
her. He never heard of her being at church, nor did he ever meet her on
the high-road. It was strange how completely a vail of silence and
mystery had fallen over her.
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