his breast, as
though it were ready to burst, and, with the look and the howl of a
maniac, he sprang to the door, and disappeared. Some from an interest in
his fate, others from a desire to secure him, followed after him. But he
fled to the woods, and they traced him not.

It was found that the wound of Francis Dorrington was not mortal; and
the fears of the company were directed from him to Ebenezer, who they
feared had laid violent hands upon his own life.

On the following day, without again meeting the company, Lady Helen left
the house, having acknowledged the deformed Ebenezer to be her son--a
child of shame--whose birth had been concealed from the world.

On the third day, the poor cripple was found by a shepherd wandering on
the hills. His head was uncovered; his garments and his body were torn
by the brambles through which he had rushed; his eyes rolled wildly,
and, when accosted, he fled, exclaiming, "I am Cain! I am Cain! I have
slain my brother! Touch me not--the mark is on my forehead!" He was
secured, and taken to a place of safety.

The circumstances twined round Maria's heart; she heard no more of
Ebenezer the cripple, but she forgot him not. Several years passed, and
she, together with a friend, visited a lunatic asylum in a distant part
of the country, in which a female acquaintance, once the admired of
society, had become an inmate. They were shown round the different
wards; some of the inmates seemed happy, others melancholy, but all were
mild--all shrank from the eye of their keeper. The sound of the clanking
chains around their ankles filled Maria's soul with horror, and she
longed to depart; but the keeper invited them to visit the garden of his
asylum. They entered, and beheld several quiet-looking people engaged in
digging; others were pruning trees; and some sat upon benches on the
paths, playing with their fingers, striking their heels upon the ground,
or reading stray leaves of an old book or a newspaper. Each seemed
engaged with himself, none conversed with his neighbour. Upon a bench
near the entrance to a small arbour or summer-house sat a female,
conning an old ballad; and, as she perused it, she laughed, wept, and
sang by turns. Maria stopped to converse with her, and her friend
entered the arbour. In it sat a grey-headed and deformed man; he held a
volume of Savage in his hand, which had then been but a short time
published.

"I am reading the 'Bastard,' by Savage," said he, as th