CHAPTER X. THE GHOST OF A DEAD LOVE.
Is this the face I loved of yore,
Ere years had run;
Alas! I care for it no more
Old love is done;
We soon forget what we adore
At twenty-one.
It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon and the short autumnal day was rapidly closing in, the grey veil of the sky was rent here and there showing a patch of pale cold blue, while the setting sun was tinting the ragged clouds in the west with iridescent hues.
Beaumont stood in the long, rank grass of the graveyard, thinking deeply, his eyes fixed dreamily on the ancient tombstones around with their half-obliterated inscriptions and weed-grown mounds of earth. Behind him was the old church, its grey walls covered with close-clinging ivy from out which peered the grotesque faces of the gargoyles, le
