an inviting leer, the crone pointed to a pewter measure of
raw spirits that accompanied the viands, and assured her, in a cracked
and maudlin voice, that "'Old Tom' was a kinder friend than any of the
young fellers!" This intrusion ended, Alice was again left alone till
dusk, when Darvil entered with a bundle of clothes, such as are worn by
the peasants of that primitive district of England.

"There, Alley," said he, "put on this warm toggery; finery won't do now.
We must leave no scent in the track; the hounds are after us, my little
blowen. Here's a nice stuff gown for you, and a red cloak that would
frighten a turkey-cock. As to the other cloak and shawl, don't be
afraid; they sha'n't go to the pop-shop, but we'll take care of them
against we get to some large town where there are young fellows with
blunt in their pockets; for you seem to have already found out that your
face is your fortune, Alley. Come, make haste, we must be starting.
I shall come up for you in ten minutes. Pish! don't be faint hearted;
here, take 'Old Tom'--take it, I say. What, you won't? Well, here's to
your health, and a better taste to you!"

And now, as the door once more closed upon Darvil, tears for the
first time came to the relief of Alice. It was a woman's weakness that
procured for her that woman's luxury. Those garments--they were Ernest's
gift--Ernest's taste; they were like the last relic of that delicious
life which now seemed to have fled for ever. All traces of that life--of
him, the loving, the protecting, the adored; all trace of herself, as
she had been re-created by love, was to be lost to her for ever. It
was (as she had read somewhere, in the little elementary volumes that
bounded her historic lore) like that last fatal ceremony in which those
condemned for life to the mines of Siberia are clothed with the slave's
livery, their past name and record eternally blotted out, and thrust
into the vast wastes, from which even the mercy of despotism, should
it ever re-awaken, cannot recall them; for all evidence of them--all
individuality--all mark to distinguish them from the universal herd, is
expunged from the world's calendar. She was still sobbing in vehement
and unrestrained passion, when Darvil re-entered. "What, not dressed
yet?" he exclaimed, in a voice of impatient rage; "hark ye, this won't
do. If in two minutes you are not ready, I'll send up John Walters to
help you; and he is a rough hand, I can tell you."

This th