and she spoke once more.

"Do you live in London?" she said.

"Yes." As I answered, it struck me that she might have formed some
intention of appealing to me for assistance or advice, and that I ought
to spare her a possible disappointment by warning her of my approaching
absence from home. So I added, "But to-morrow I shall be away from
London for some time. I am going into the country."

"Where?" she asked. "North or south?"

"North--to Cumberland."

"Cumberland!" she repeated the word tenderly. "Ah! wish I was going
there too. I was once happy in Cumberland."

I tried again to lift the veil that hung between this woman and me.

"Perhaps you were born," I said, "in the beautiful Lake country."

"No," she answered. "I was born in Hampshire; but I once went to
school for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes? I don't remember any
lakes. It's Limmeridge village, and Limmeridge House, I should like to
see again."

It was my turn now to stop suddenly. In the excited state of my
curiosity, at that moment, the chance reference to Mr. Fairlie's place
of residence, on the lips of my strange companion, staggered me with
astonishment.

"Did you hear anybody calling after us?" she asked, looking up and down
the road affrightedly, the instant I stopped.

"No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge House. I heard
it mentioned by some Cumberland people a few days since."

"Ah! not my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead; and her husband is dead; and
their little girl may be married and gone away by this time. I can't
say who lives at Limmeridge now. If any more are left there of that
name, I only know I love them for Mrs. Fairlie's sake."

She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking, we came
within view of the turnpike, at the top of the Avenue Road. Her hand
tightened round my arm, and she looked anxiously at the gate before us.

"Is the turnpike man looking out?" she asked.

He was not looking out; no one else was near the place when we passed
through the gate. The sight of the gas-lamps and houses seemed to
agitate her, and to make her impatient.

"This is London," she said. "Do you see any carriage I can get? I am
tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be driven away."

I explained to her that we must walk a little further to get to a
cab-stand, unless we were fortunate enough to meet with an empty
vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject of Cumberland. It was