 It was a near relative of Lilies Fay, an old man by the name of Walter Gascoigne, who had long labored under the burden of a melancholy spirit, which was sometimes maddened into absolute insanity, and always had a tinge of it.  What a contrast between the young pilgrims of bliss and their unbidden associate! They looked as if moulded of Heavenâs sunshine, and he of earthâs gloomiest shade; they flitted along like Hope and Joy, roaming hand in hand through life; while his darksome figure stalked behind, a type of all the woeful influences which life could fling upon them.  But the three had not gone far, when they reached a spot that pleased the gentle Lily, and she paused.