The Deserted Shrine

Kenyon knew the sanctity which Hilda (faithful Protestant, and daughter
of the Puritans, as the girl was) imputed to this shrine. He was aware
of the profound feeling of responsibility, as well earthly as religious,
with which her conscience had been impressed, when she became the
occupant of her aerial chamber, and undertook the task of keeping the
consecrated lamp alight. There was an accuracy and a certainty about
Hilda's movements, as regarded all matters that lay deep enough to have
their roots in right or wrong, which made it as possible and safe to
rely upon the timely and careful trimming of this lamp (if she were in
life, and able to creep up the steps), as upon the rising of to-morrow's
sun, with lustre-undiminished from to-day.

The sculptor could scarcely believe his eyes, therefore, when he saw the
flame flicker and expire. His sight had surely deceived him. And now,
since the light did not reappear, there must be some smoke wreath
or impenetrable mist brooding about the tower's gray old head, and
obscuring it from the lower world. But no! For right over the dim
battlements, as the wind chased away a mass of clouds, he beheld a star,
and moreover, by an earnest concentration of his sight, was soon able to
discern even the darkened shrine itself. There was no obscurity around
the tower; no infirmity of his own vision. The flame had exhausted its
supply of oil, and become extinct. But where was Hilda?

A man in a cloak happened to be passing; and Kenyon--anxious to distrust
the testimony of his senses, if he could get more acceptable evidence on
the other side--appealed to him.