I thought a shadow passed over the sunshine.

The figure of a stranger stood between me and the glowing west.

I started up with an irrepressible exclamation.

I knew, at the first glance, that it was Ernest Linwood, the living embodiment of that haunting image, so long drawn on my youthful fancy.

I should have known him in the farthest isles of the ocean, from the painting in the library, the descriptions of Edith, and the sketches of my own imagination.