orgotten her--no, no! she heard footsteps running.
The bay of mastiffs came near; they were on the track of two men, of
Thomas (though she could not remember his name); and she was in front,
her feet too heavy to run, the way too long and dark for any hope of
escape. She heard the ripple of the sea; and then she was in a boat, and
saw herself falling, falling--the cruel water swallowing her up.

She sat up with a stifled scream.

Mrs. Wright, who was sound asleep, woke with a start, and hastening to
her, made her lie down, soothing her, and assuring her it was only a
nightmare.

Again Estelle sank into a sleep. She was in a large library, the room
was surrounded by book-shelves, the backs of the books glistened in the
ruddy firelight. All around spoke of luxury and comfort. She was sitting
on the hearthrug, her head against the knee of--whom? A gentleman was
stroking her hair, and she heard him say, 'It is the sweetest name on
earth to me, my darling.' What name? She was sure he pronounced it, but
no sound seemed to come from his lips. Weeping, she entreated, oh, if
she could only hear that name! It was her own. She felt sure of that,
but she could not tell what it was. She looked up to ask again, but the
gentleman was gone. There was a sweet old lady sitting in an armchair,
surrounded by four children. They had been having tea on the lawn.
Before them was a wide stretch of green grass ending at the lily-pond;
yellow and white blossoms dotted the calm water, and swans were pluming
their wings in the summer sun. The lady was telling the children a
story--something sad, something that contained a great lesson, and
Estelle tried with all her might to hear what that story was. It seemed
quite natural that she should be there; the old lady and the children
appeared to be connected with her in some close way. She tried to touch
the lady to ask her name, but she could not.

A sense of misery overcame her. She appealed in vain to be heard, but
the old lady went on with her story, and the four children listened very
gravely and sadly. Throwing herself back upon the grass, she sobbed till
a voice said, 'Come, come, Missie, don't take on like that.' The lady,
the children, the garden had gone, and she was in a strange place,
surrounded by dirty people, men, women, and children, and still more
dirty stalls of toys and sweets. Jack held her hand, and pointed out a
big flaring painting on the front of a marquee, but as she looked