ould not have
risen. I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow
pass between the sun's warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through
my frame. In a minute or two she released me.

'Go,' repeated she. 'Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think you
can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy
should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what
may come of it?'

'I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning,
and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.'

I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress
Clarke's sanity.

Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts
connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly
sleep. I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on
the path over the common that led to the old farm-house where they
lodged. I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for
there she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bent
down, her whole look most saintly and pure. She started when I came
close to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, and
spoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing her
once more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible
hints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of
fire, and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she
listened; but, when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her
soft eyes to me, and said:

'But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only
want to say this: I shall not think less of you--less well of you, I
mean--if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!' said
she, as if fearing another burst of mad words. 'Listen to me. My father
is a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died
when I was very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in
a great, lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My
father, even, was not there; he was--he is--a soldier, and his duties
lie abroad. But he came, from time to time, and every time I think he
loved me more and more. He brought me rarities from foreign lands,
which prove to me now how much he must have thought of me during his
absences. I can sit down and measure the depth of his lost love now, by
such standards as these. I never thought whether he love