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 “What!” exclaimed Lilias Fay, “have any ever planned such a Temple, save ourselves?” “Poor child!” said her gloomy kinsman, “in one shape or other, every mortal has dreamed your dream.” Then he told the lovers, how-not, indeed, an antique Temple-but a dwelling had once stood there, and that a dark-clad guest had dwelt among its inmates, sitting forever at the fire-side, and poisoning all their household mirth. Under this type, Adam Forrester and Lilias saw that the old man spoke of sorrow. He told of nothing that might not be recorded in the history of almost every household; and yet his hearers felt as if no sunshine ought to fall upon a spot where human grief had left so deep a stain; or, at least, that no joyous Temple should be built there. “This is very sad,” said the Lily, sighing. “Well, there are lovelier spots than this,” said Adam Forrester, soothingly-“spots which sorrow has not blighted.” So they hastened away, and the melancholy Gascoigne followed them, looking as if he had gathered up all the gloom of the deserted spot, and was bearing it as a burthen of inestimable treasure. But still they rambled on, and soon found themselves in a rocky dell, through the midst of which ran a streamlet, with ripple, and foam, and a continual voice of inarticulate joy. It was a wild retreat, walled on either side with gray precipices, which would have frowned somewhat too sternly, had not a profusion of green shrubbery rooted itself into their crevices, and wreathed gladsome foliage around their solemn brows. But the chief joy
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