Yonder, perhaps, where he met the
fool in the forest.' I mused awhile, and then opened my Shakespeare at
the scene of Rosalind and Celia, followed by Touchstone, and became
deeply engrossed. "I might have been half-an-hour poring over this scene, when I lifted my
eyes from my book and beheld coming towards me in the distance the slim
and graceful form of a lady, reading a book which was bound in the same
fashion as the book I was reading, and which, therefore, I concluded
must be a Shakespeare. She approached with her eyes still fixed on the
book. At length, as I gazed on her she closed the book, and her eyes met
mine. "'Edith!' I cried, 'do I dream still, or is it indeed yourself in the
flesh?' "She was no less surprised than myself. "'Charles!' she exclaimed, 'how have you tracked me hither? Did you know
of----'

"'Tracked you, Edith!' I exclaimed. 'I knew nothing of your whereabouts. This is the hand of Fate.' "'Oh, Charles, is it possible!' she cried. 'To think that we should live
to meet in the flesh.' "We embraced, and strolled under the trees together. "'Shall I awake from this,' I kept saying to myself, 'and find it also a
dream?' "We both of us began to doubt whether we were sleeping or waking. She
informed me that her adopted parents, for she was a foundling, as I
learnt, had taken her with them, away from home for the summer for
change of air; and, as she had often expressed a wish to visit the spot
where she had been first picked up by her present parents when a baby of
a week old, she begged Squire and Mrs. L---- to take her to
Stratford-on-Avon, a place of double interest to her. "She invited me to her house, and introduced me to the squire and his
lady, who both remarked how much we resembled each other in feature. I
frequented the house much, and Edith and I were in the habit of taking
long walks together. It is hardly necessary to say that I was not
introduced as the young man Edith used to meet in her dreams. The tale
would have been too startling, and would not have been credited; and yet
Edith had been so entirely under the surveillance of her parents, that
it was impossible for her to have formed an acquaintance with anyone
without their knowledge, so I had to trump up some story--indeed, I
scarce know what--about rescuing her from a bull, just to account for
our acquaintance. "We were left much alone. Little did the parents think what an old
attachment ours was; and for a long time I thought the squire looked
favourably on my suit, but when matters were advanced so far that I
demanded her in marriage, he drew up stiffly, and inquired into the
state of my finances. I boasted of my family, but was obliged to own
that as far as money-matters went, I was afraid that by my own fortune I
could hardly hope to keep his adopted daughter in that style to which
she had been accustomed. "He hummed and hawed; but Edith broke in, begged and wept, saying she
had never loved before, and vowed that she never would love another. At
length the squire, with some reluctance, gave his consent, but said that
I must find something to get my own living, and I am consequently
looking out for some mercantile employment. "'To such base uses must we come at last,'" he quoted, with a sigh. "Yes," said I, "rather a come-down from a king; but, never mind what it
is, as long as it pays well." I saw him wince at this speech of mine; his romantic nature revolted
against all thoughts of making money, however pressing his needs might
be. We parted, and I called upon him about a week after, when I found he was
making grand preparations for his marriage. He informed me that he had
got his eye upon some appointment, but that he should have to wait. There was a certain air of sadness about his face still. He did not look
like a man about to be married. "Doctor," said he, "do you know what I have been thinking of late?" "No," I replied. "I have been thinking that this marriage of mine will never come off,"
he said. "Why?" I asked. "Have you had some lovers' quarrel?" "No," he replied. "Why, then? Has the squire changed his mind, after having given his
consent?" I demanded. "No; nor that either," he replied. "I cannot myself give you my reason
for the fancy--it is a presentiment. You know, 'the course of true love
never _did_ run smooth.'" "Oh!" said I, soothingly, "that is your fancy; you are nervous and
impatient--it is natural." "No, no!" he said; "I am sure of it--I feel it." "What! Have you been dreaming that it would not?" "No; I never dream now," he replied. "I am glad to hear it," I observed; "it is a good sign. When does the
wedding take place?" "To-morrow was the day appointed, but it won't take place, I say. Mark
my word." "So soon! But what can have put it into your head that it will not take
place to-morrow? Do you know of any impediment likely to occur between
this and then?" "No," he replied; "none for certain, but I tell you, once for all, it
will not take place." I did not know exactly what to make of this strange monomania. My
suspicions were again aroused as to the brain being affected. I did not
see what could happen to hinder the marriage, so I left him, after
cheering him as much as I possibly could, determining within myself to
call upon him as soon after his marriage as was convenient, to triumph
over him and laugh at his presentiments; but this was the last time I
ever saw Charles. Shortly after this, my last, visit I was glancing rapidly over the paper
at breakfast when I was shocked to see among the list of deaths the name
of Charles ----, aged twenty-four. Strange enough; I had been dreaming
of him much the night previous. What was my surprise and dismay when,
looking lower down the column, I saw also the death of Edith L----. I
looked at the date of both deaths. To my still further surprise, both
lovers had departed this life at exactly the same hour--at midnight,
October 12th, 17--. "What a strange coincidence," I thought. "What strange beings both of
them were! They did not appear either to belong to or to be fitted for
this world. They were evidently never destined for an earthly lot
together." "The hand of providence is in this," I muttered. I grieved much for the loss of my two patients, for I had conceived
quite a fatherly affection for them both. As soon as decency would
permit, I called upon the parents of Charles. The account they gave of
the reason of his death caused me no little surprise. It appeared that
on the eve of his marriage his mother received a badly-written and
ill-spelt letter from a person who professed to have known the family a
long time, begging her to call upon the writer, who was then in a dying
state, and had an important communication to make. Mrs. ----, curious to know who the writer could be, called at the
address given in the letter, which proved to be a miserable hovel in one
of the back slums of London.