here."

I guessed that she was speaking of the quaint, kindly little woman,
whose ugly surname had been hitherto the only name known to me.

"Selina has, I daresay, told you that I have been ill," she continued,
"and that I am staying in the country for the benefit of my health."

It was plain that she had something to say to me, far more important
than this, and that she was dwelling on trifles to gain time and
courage. Hoping to help her, I dwelt on trifles, too; asking commonplace
questions about the part of the country in which she was staying. She
answered absently--then, little by little, impatiently. The one poor
proof of kindness that I could offer, now, was to say no more.

"Do you know what a strange creature I am?" she broke out. "Shall I make
you angry with me? or shall I make you laugh at me? What I have shrunk
from confessing to Selina--what I dare not confess to my father--I must,
and will, confess to You."

There was a look of horror in her face that alarmed me. I drew her to
me so that she could rest her head on my shoulder. My own agitation
threatened to get the better of me. For the first time since I had seen
this sweet girl, I found myself thinking of the blood that ran in her
veins, and of the nature of the mother who had borne her.

"Did you notice how I behaved upstairs?" she said. "I mean when we left
my father, and came out on the landing."

It was easily recollected; I begged her to go on.

"Before I went downstairs," she proceeded, "you saw me look and listen.
Did you think I was afraid of meeting some person? and did you guess who
it was I wanted to avoid?"

"I guessed that--and I understood you."

"No! You are not wicked enough to understand me. Will you do me a favor?
I want you to look at me."

It was said seriously. She lifted her head for a moment, so that I could
examine her face.

"Do you see anything," she asked, "which makes you fear that I am not in
my right mind?"

"Good God! how can you ask such a horrible question?"

She laid her head back on my shoulder with a sad little sigh of
resignation. "I ought to have known better," she said; "there is no such
easy way out of it as that. Tell me--is there one kind of wickedness
more deceitful than another? Can it be hid in a person for years
together, and show itself when a time of suffering--no; I mean when a
sense of injury comes? Did you ever see that, when you were master in
the prison?"

I had seen it--and, after