let; though, remote and obscure as was their street, it seemed much easier to decide on letting, than to let these apartments. It so chanced, however, that they succeeded immediately.
Their new resident was a man on whose age it would have been difficult to determine; you might have guessed any period between twenty and thirty; for his slender and almost boyish figure was bent with what might have been either time or infirmity. His hair, of a singularly bright golden hue, was thin, and left exposed a high and strongly marked forehead; his originally fine features were worn to emaciation; and the mouth was sunken and colourless. His large eyes were of the palest blue, and seemed with the least emotion to fill, as it were, with light—like the flashing and restless brilliancy of sunshine upon water. More richly dressed than suited his circumstances—apparently without a connexion, for none ever came near him—scarcely stirring from home—keeping lonely vigils, that sometimes lasted through the night,—there was obviously a mystery about him; yet it was difficult to hear his sweet low voice, mark his wan and wasted countenance, and believe that the mystery could be in aught evil.
Gradually his gentle and quiet habits led to acquaintance, and acquaintance to confidence. One evening, when Rebecca was sitting working in the little back-parlour, he entered, and turning over the few volumes on her solitary book-shelf, opened
