ed all his servants, and told them, with terrible oaths,
and words more terrible, that his daughter had disgraced herself, and
that he had turned her out of doors--her, and her child--and that if
ever they gave her help, or food, or shelter, he prayed that they might
never enter heaven. And, all the while, Miss Grace stood by him, white
and still as any stone; and, when he had ended, she heaved a great
sigh, as much as to say her work was done, and her end was
accomplished. But the old lord never touched his organ again, and died
within the year; and no wonder! for, on the morrow of that wild and
fearful night, the shepherds, coming down the Fell side, found Miss
Maude sitting, all crazy and smiling, under the holly-trees, nursing a
dead child, with a terrible mark on its right shoulder. 'But that was
not what killed it,' said Dorothy: 'it was the frost and the cold.
Every wild creature was in its hole, and every beast in its fold, while
the child and its mother were turned out to wander on the Fells! And
now you know all! and I wonder if you are less frightened now?'

I was more frightened than ever; but I said I was not. I wished Miss
Rosamond and myself well out of that dreadful house for ever; but I
would not leave her, and I dared not take her away. But oh, how I
watched her, and guarded her! We bolted the doors, and shut the
window-shutters fast, an hour or more before dark, rather than leave
them open five minutes too late. But my little lady still heard the
weird child crying and mourning; and not all we could do or say could
keep her from wanting to go to her, and let her in from the cruel wind
and the snow. All this time I kept away from Miss Furnivall and Mrs.
Stark, as much as ever I could; for I feared them--I knew no good could
be about them, with their grey, hard faces, and their dreamy eyes,
looking back into the ghastly years that were gone. But, even in my
fear, I had a kind of pity for Miss Furnivall, at least. Those gone
down to the pit can hardly have a more hopeless look than that which
was ever on her face. At last I even got so sorry for her--who never
said a word but what was quite forced from her--that I prayed for her;
and I taught Miss Rosamond to pray for one who had done a deadly sin;
but often when she came to those words, she would listen, and start up
from her knees, and say, 'I hear my little girl plaining and crying
very sad--oh, let her in, or she will die!'

One night--just after Ne