while I write the
words--and I ask myself whether it is really the hand of Lydia Gwilt!

"Armadale--

"No! I will never write, I will never think of Armadale again.

"Yes! Let me write once more--let me think once more of him, because
it quiets me to know that he is going away, and that the sea will have
parted us before I am married. His old home is home to him no longer,
now that the loss of his mother has been followed by the loss of his
best and earliest friend. When the funeral is over, he has decided to
sail the same day for the foreign seas. We may, or we may not, meet at
Naples. Shall I be an altered woman if we do? I wonder; I wonder!"

"August 8th.--A line from Midwinter. He has gone back to Somersetshire
to be in readiness for the funeral to-morrow; and he will return here
(after bidding Armadale good-by) to-morrow evening.

"The last forms and ceremonies preliminary to our marriage have been
complied with. I am to be his wife on Monday next. The hour must not be
later than half-past ten--which will give us just time, when the service
is over, to get from the church door to the railway, and to start on our
journey to Naples the same day.

"To-day--Saturday--Sunday! I am not afraid of the time; the time will
pass. I am not afraid of myself, if I can only keep all thoughts but
one out of my mind. I love him! Day and night, till Monday comes, I will
think of nothing but that. I love him!"

"Four o'clock.--Other thoughts are forced into my mind in spite of me.
My suspicions of yesterday were no mere fancies; the milliner has been
tampered with. My folly in going back to her house has led to my being
traced here. I am absolutely certain that I never gave the woman my
address; and yet my new gown was sent home to me at two o'clock to-day!

"A man brought it with the bill, and a civil message, to say that, as I
had not called at the appointed time to try it on again, the dress had
been finished and sent to me. He caught me in the passage; I had no
choice but to pay the bill, and dismiss him. Any other proceeding, as
events have now turned out, would have been pure folly. The messenger
(not the man who followed me in the street, but another spy sent to look
at me, beyond all doubt) would have declared he knew nothing about it,
if I had spoken to him. The milliner would tell me to my face, if I went
to her, that I had given her my address. The one useful thing to do now
is to set my wits to work in the int