tivity.

Again I spoke to her slowly and kindly, but there was no response. That
she was absolutely dumb was only too apparent. Yet surely she had not
always been so! I had gone in search of her because the beauty of her
portrait had magnetized me, and I had now found her to be even more
lovely than her picture, yet, alas! suffering from an affliction that
rendered her life a tragedy. The realization of the terrible truth
staggered me. Such a perfect face as hers I had never before set eyes
upon, so beautiful, so clear-cut, so refined, so eminently the
countenance of one well-born, and yet so ineffably sad, so full of blank
unutterable despair.

She placed her clasped hands to her mouth and made signs by shaking her
head that she could neither understand nor respond. I therefore took my
wallet from my pocket and wrote upon a piece of paper in a large hand
the words: "_I come from Lydia Moreton. My name is Gordon Gregg_."

When her eager gaze fell upon the words she became instantly filled with
excitement, and nodded quickly. Then holding her steel-clasped wrists
towards me she looked wistfully at me, as though imploring me to release
her from the awful bondage in that silent tomb.

Though the woman who had led me there endeavored to prevent it, I
handed her the pencil, and placed the paper on the table for her to
write.

The nun tried to snatch it up, but I held her arm gently and forcibly,
saying in French:

"No. I wish to see if she is really insane. You will at least allow me
this satisfaction."

And while we were in altercation, Elma, with the pencil in her fingers,
tried to write, but by reason of her hands being bound so closely was
unable. At length, however, after several attempts, she succeeded in
printing in uneven capitals the response:

"I know you. You were on the yacht. I thought they killed you."

The thin-faced old woman saw her response--a reply that was surely
rational enough--and her brows contracted with displeasure.

"Why are you here?" I wrote, not allowing the sister to get sight of my
question.

In response, she wrote painfully and laboriously:

"I am condemned for a crime I did not commit. Take me from here, or I
shall kill myself."

"Ah!" exclaimed the old woman. "You see, poor girl, she believes herself
innocent! They all do."

"But why is she here?" I demanded fiercely.

"I do not know, m'sieur. It is not my duty to inquire the history of
their crimes. When they are ill I