carriage ordered.

CHAPTER LXV.

HILDA'S DECISION.

Hilda fled, and continued long in that frantic flight through the
thick woods. As the branches of the underbrush crackled behind her,
it seemed to her that it was the noise of pursuit, and the horror of
that unexpected vision was before her, for to face it again seemed to
her worse than death. She was strong of soul naturally; her nerves
were not such as give way beneath the pressure of imagination; she
was not a woman who was in any degree liable to the ordinary
weaknesses of a woman's nature; but the last few months had opened
new feelings within her, and under the assault of those fierce,
resistless feelings the strength of her nature had given way. Even
had she possessed all her old strength, the sight of this
unparalleled apparition might have overwhelmed her, but as it was, it
seemed to make her insane. Already shaken to her inmost soul by long
suffering and wild alternations of feeling, she had that night
attained the depths of despair in those words which she had
overheard. Immediately upon that there came the direful phantom,
which she felt that she could not look upon and live. That face
seemed to burn itself into her mind. It was before her as she fled,
and a great horror thrilled through her, driving her onward blindly
and wildly, until at last nature itself gave way, and she fell
shrieking with terror.

Then sense left her.

How long she lay she knew not. There was no one near to bring back
the lost sense. She awaked shuddering. She had never fainted thus
before, and it seemed to her now as though she had died and risen
again to the sadness of life. Around her were the solemn forest
trees. The wind sighed through their branches. The sun was almost at
the meridian. It was not midnight when she fainted. It was mid-day
almost when she recovered. There was a sore pain at her heart; all
her limbs seemed full of bruises; but she dragged herself to a little
opening in the trees where the rays of the sun came down, and there
the sun's rays warmed her once more into life. There, as she sat, she
recalled the events of the night. The horror had passed, and she no
longer had that awful sense of a pursuing phantom; but there remained
the belief, fixed within her soul, that she had seen the form of the
dead. She was not superstitious, but in this instance the sight, and
the effects of that sight, had been so tremendous that she could not
reason them a