The moment Madeline had read those lines, she recollected the voice which she fancied she had heard the preceding evening, and was convinced her ear had not then deceived her.
A stranger, she was sure, had visited the ruins, for to none of the inhabitants of the valley, all the rough and illiterate children of industry, could she ascribe them; neither could she avoid believing them addressed to herself; not from any conscious superiority of charms over the rest of the village maids, but from a conviction that they never visited the castle, on account of the superstitious dread they entertained of it.
An idea that the person who wrote the lines might be loitering about the ruins, now struck her; and she instantly determined to quit them. Scarcely had she done so, when she heard the sound of a step in the adjoining chamber; she hastily bent forward, and looking through the little arch which led to
