that, although you may no
longer feel towards her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and
perhaps, by your learning, you can tell us where to go for aid.'

'I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,' I cried, almost
maddened by this suspense.

'I cannot,' said she, solemnly. 'I am under a deep vow of secrecy. If
you are to be told, it must be by her.' She left the room, and I
remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turned
over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time,
examined the tokens of Lucy's frequent presence in that room.

When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a
pure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she
had been crying sadly.

'Yes,' said she, 'it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she is
willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself--she
acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a balm,
if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning; and as you
hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or
repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.'

I half smiled. 'Have no fear,' I said. It seemed too absurd to imagine
my feeling dislike to Lucy.

'Her father loved her well,' said she, gravely, 'yet he drove her out
like some monstrous thing.'

Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. It
was Lucy's voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side
of the open casement--and as though she were suddenly stirred to
merriment--merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or
sayings of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound
jarred on me inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation,
and must have been at least aware of the state of agitation her friend
was in: she herself usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to
the window, and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what had
provoked this burst of ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw her
whole weight and power upon the hand with which she pressed and kept me
down.

'For God's sake!' she said, white and trembling all over, 'sit still;
be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us, for we
are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.'

Again that laugh--so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart.
She held me tight--tighter; without positive violence I c