“And the glad song of the brook will be always in ourears，” said Lilias Fay.
“And its long melody shall sing the bliss of our lifetime，”
said Adam Forrester.
“Ye must build no temple here，” murmured their dismalcompanion.
And there again was the old lunatic standing just on thespot where they meant to rear their lightsome dome， andlooking like the embodied symbol of some great woe thatin forgotten days had happened there. And， alas！ therehad been woe， nor that alone. A young man more thana hundred years before had lured hither a girl that lovedhim， and on this spot had murdered her and washed hisbloody hands in the stream which sang so merrily， and eversince the victim’s death-shrieks were often heard to echobetween the cliffs.
“And see！” cried old Gascoigne； “is the stream yet purefrom the stain of the murderer’s hands？”
“Methinks it has a tinge of blood，” faintly answered theLily； and， being as slight as the gossamer， she trembled andclung to her lover’s arm， whispering， “Let us flee from thisdreadful vale.”
“Come， then，” said Adam Forrester as cheerily as hecould； “we shall soon find a happier spot.”
They set forth again， young pilgrims on that quest whichmillions—which every child of earth—has tried in turn.
And were the Lily and her lover to be more fortunatethan all those millions？ For a long time it seemed not so.
The dismal shape of the old lunatic still glided behindthem， and for every spot that looked lovely in their eyes hehad some legend of human wrong or suffering so miserablysad that his auditors could never afterward connectthe idea of joy with the place where it had happened.
Here a heartbroken woman kneeling to her child hadbeen spurned from his feet； here a desolate old creaturehad prayed to the evil one， and had received a fiendishmalignity of soul in answer to her prayer； here a newborninfant， sweet blossom of life， had been found deadwith the impress of its mother’s fingers round its throat；and here， under a shattered oak， two lovers had beenstricken by lightning and fell blackened corpses in eachother’s arms. The dreary Gascoigne had a gift to knowwhatever evil and lamentable thing had stained the bosomof Mother Earth； and when his funereal voice had told thetale， it appeared like a prophecy of future woe as well as atradition of the past. And now， by their sad demeanor， youwould have fancied that the pilgrim-lovers were seeking，not a temple of earthly joy， but a tomb for themselves andtheir posterity.
“Where in this world，” exclaimed Adam Forrester，despondingly， “shall we build our temple of happiness？”
“Where in this world， indeed？” repeated Lilias Fay； and，being faint and weary—the more so by the heaviness ofher heart—the Lily drooped her head and sat down on thesummit of a knoll， repeating， “Where in this world shallwe build our temple？”
“Ah！ have you already asked yourselves that question？”
said their companion， his shaded features growing evengloomier with the smile that dwelt on them. “Yet there isa place even in this world where ye may build it.”
While the old man spoke Adam Forrester and Lilias hadcarelessly thrown their eyes around， and perceived that thespot where they had chanced to pause possessed a quietcharm which was well enough adapted to their presentmood of mind. It was a small rise of ground with a certainregularity of shape that had perhaps been bestowed byart， and a group of trees which almost surrounded it threwtheir pensive shadows across and far beyond， althoughsome softened glory of the sunshine found its way there.
The ancestral mansion wherein the lovers would dwelltogether appeared on one side， and the ivied church wherethey were to worship on another. Happening to casttheir eyes on the ground， they smiled， yet with a sense ofwonder， to see that a pale lily was growing at their feet.
“We will build our temple here，” said they， simultaneously，and with an indescribable conviction that they had at lastfound the very spot.