oking behind her to see if she were
pursued.

She opened the white gates and went into a field where the tall trees
threw a deep shade. She sat down then, or, rather, flung herself on the
ground with a vehement cry, like one who had suffered from a deadly pain
without daring to murmur--one loud cry, and, from the sound of it, it
was easy to tell that it came from a broken heart. She bowed her head
against the rugged bark of a tree, and then fell into a deep slumber.
The wearied limbs seemed to relax. To sleep as she did she must have
been watching long.

When she opened her eyes again the afternoon had gone and the shadows of
evening were falling. It was still bright and warm, but she shivered
like one seized with mortal cold.

She rose and made her way to the quiet little village. It was almost out
of the world, so completely was it hidden by the trees and hills. She
reached the quiet little street at last. She looked at the windows of
the houses, but the notice she wanted to see was not in any of them. At
the end of the street she came to a narrow lane that led to the woods;
half-way down the lane was a small cottage half buried in elder trees.

In the window hung a small placard--"Rooms to let." She knocked at the
door, which was opened by a kindly-looking elderly woman.

"You have rooms to let?" said the faint, low voice. "I want two."

Then followed a few words as to terms, etc., and the transaction was
concluded.

"Shall my son fetch your luggage?" asked the landlady, Mrs. Hirste.

"I have no luggage," she replied; then seeing something like a doubtful
expression on the kindly face, she added; "I will pay you a month's
money in advance."

That was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Hirste led the way to a pretty little
parlor, which she showed with no little pride.

"This is the other room," she said, throwing open the door of a pretty
white chamber. "And now, is there anything I can get for you?"

"No," replied the strange, weak voice. "I will ask when I want anything;
for the present I only desire to be alone."

Mrs. Hirste withdrew, and her lodger immediately locked the door. Then
she threw off the gray cloak and thick veil.

"I am alone," she said--"alone and safe. Oh, if my wretched life be
worth gratitude, thank God! thank God!"

She repeated the words with a burst of hysterical weeping. She knelt by
the little white bed and buried her face in her hands. Deep, bitter sobs
shook her whole frame; from h