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and the woods and fields nearby, in a strangely vacant mood which never seemed to lift. The good folk of the town often tried to speak to him, but their well-meant words caused only annoyance, and they were always repulsed; though never with roughness, for his sorrow had mellowed his nature, and made his kind heart even kinder than it had been before. His thoughts were ever outside the things about him; and though he seemed to talk sometimes, and even to try to smile, his inmost being held no real communion with those of this world. His mind was with the other, so far away, and yet so near to him in his hours of pensive solitude. His only peace came when he was alone, and thinking of her; so ere long he withdrew from the village to lead a hermit's life in the neighbouring wood.
For many years his existence was a strange one. He ate, and slept, and thought; but of these three things he thought the most, eating and sleeping only that he might think the better. He lived in a sphere of his own, above and beyond the world in which he seemed to live. The few who passed by his sylvan abode would sometimes behold him, walking slowly and calmly, with a strange, inscrutable smile of expectation on his lips; and they would wonder what it was that he expected, for to them his life seemed a blighted, wasted thing, and his mind, almost a blank. They knew, as did most of the villagers, that always he was helping others, and that many owed to him all their happiness in life. Sufferers, oppressed by lack of money or of some less material comfort, found in him a source from which seemed to flow the love and solace of God. In numbers they flocked to him, yet was none turned away. For himself he appeared to do nothing. His life was lived for others, yet he smiled and seemed to have hope of that peace which goodness brings to all who are able to rise to the heights of ascetic self-abnegation.
One day there came within the wood a caravan of wandering gypsies, who encamped as though for a long sojourn. Among their number was a girl of very singular characteristics; so young that she seemed scarce grown to that age when the mind reflects upon things unseen, yet withal so much given to deep musing, that she would frequently detach herself from the others, and sit for hours in silent, thoughtful solitude. Whenever the band made camp, this girl would withdraw from the scene of noise and bustle, for activity wearied and sickened her, imparting a strange loneliness as though some vital part of her, close to the heart, were missing. The gypsies respected her moods and feebleness and never demanded from her that labour which falls to the lot of most gypsy women. They thought her strange, and even mad, though no one had the cruelty to say so openly; for in their rough way they loved her much, and were loath to wound her sensibilities.
This night the gypsy maid wandered forth as always from the busy tribe as they prepared their encampment; but her slow and aimless steps were not quite as of yore, nor did she feel that sense of pain which was wont to harass her so poignantly. It rather seemed to her that all was but a blank, and she a phantom looking upon vacancy and seeing all in nothing. At length the sky grow dark, and many clouds, as though gathered from all quarters of the heavens, hung black and low over the wood. The girl, hardly able to guide her footsteps in
