itions in the morning. Go quietly, girl I will not have my
son disturbed with your outcries."

Poor Aurelia's voice died in her throat. Oh! why did not Mr. Belamour
come to her rescue? Ah! he had bidden her trust and be patient; she had
transgressed, and he had abandoned her! There was no sign of life or
consciousness in the pallid face on the bed, and with a bleeding heart
she let the waiting-maid lead her through the outer apartment, still
redolent of the burning, reached her own chamber, heard the key turn in
the lock, and fell across her bed in a sort of annihilation.

The threat was unspeakably frightful. Those were days of capital
punishment for half the offences in the calendar, and of what was to her
scarcely less dreadful, of promiscuous imprisonment, fetters, and gaol
fever. Poor Aurelia's ignorance could hardly enhance these horrors, and
when her perceptions began to clear themselves, her first thought was of
flight from a fate equally dreadful to the guilty or not guilty.

Springing from the bed, she tried the other door of her room, which
was level with the wainscoting, and not readily observed by a person
unfamiliar with the house. It yielded to her hand, and she knew there
was a whole suite of empty rooms thus communicating with one another. It
was one of those summer nights that are never absolutely dark, and
there was a full moon, so that she had light enough to throw off her
conspicuous white habit, all scorched and singed as it was, and to put
on her dark blue cloth one, with her camlet cloak and hood. She made up
a small bundle of clothes, took her purse, which was well filled with
guineas and silver, and moved softly to the door. Hide and seek had
taught her all the modes of eluding observation, and with her walking
shoes in her hand, and her feet slippered, she noiselessly crept through
one empty room after another, and descended the stair into her own
lobby, where she knew how to open the sash door.

One moment the thought that Mr. Belamour would protect her made her
pause, but the white phantom she had seen seemed more unreal than the
voice she was accustomed to, and both alike had vanished and abandoned
her to her fate. Nay, she had been cheated from the first. Everything
had given way with her. My Lady might be coming to send her to prison.
Hark, some one was coming! She darted out, down the steps, along the
path like a wild bird from a cage.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE WANDERER.

Wido