ommon on your mind. Hish!'

There was a distant hallooing.

'That be fayther!' she whispered, with a very blank countenance, and
listened with her sunburnt hand to her ear.

'Tisn't me, only Davy he'll be callin',' she said, with a great sigh, and a
joyless smile. 'Now git ye away i' God's name.'

So running lightly along the path, under cover of this thick wood, I
recalled Mary Quince, and together we hastened back again to the house, and
entered, as directed, by the side-door, which did not expose us to be
seen from the Windmill Wood, and, like two criminals, we stole up by the
backstairs, and so through the side-gallery to my room; and there sat down
to collect my wits, and try to estimate the exact effect of what had just
occurred.

Madame had not returned. That was well; she always visited my room first,
and everything was precisely as I had left it--a certain sign that her
prying eyes and busy fingers had not been at work during my absence.

When she did appear, strange to say, it was to bring me unexpected comfort.
She had in her hand a letter from my dear Lady Knollys--a gleam of sunlight
from the free and happy outer world entered with it. The moment Madame left
me to myself, I opened it and read as follows:--

'I am so happy, my dearest Maud, in the immediate prospect of seeing you. I
have had a really kind letter from poor Silas--_poor_ I say, for I really
compassionate his situation, about which he has been, I do believe, quite
frank--at least Ilbury says so, and somehow he happens to know. I have had
quite an affecting, changed letter. I will tell you all when I see you.
He wants me ultimately to undertake that which would afford me the most
unmixed happiness--I mean the care of you, my dear girl. I only fear lest
my too eager acceptance of the trust should excite that vein of opposition
which is in most human beings, and induce him to think over his offer less
favourably again. He says I must come to Bartram, and stay a night, and
promises to lodge me comfortably; about which last I honestly do not care a
pin, when the chance of a comfortable evening's gossip with you is in view.
Silas explains his sad situation, and must hold himself in readiness for
early flight, if he would avoid the risk of losing his personal liberty. It
is a sad thing that he should have so irretrievably ruined himself,
that poor Austin's liberality seems to have positively precipitated his
extremity. His great anxiety is that