his death-bed, and asked her if she would
rather have a sum down, or have a small annuity settled upon her. She
said at once she would have a sum down; for she thought of her
daughter, and how she could bequeath the money to her, whereas an
annuity would have died with her. So the Squire left her her cottage
for life, and a fair sum of money. And then he died, with as ready and
willing a heart as, I suppose, ever any gentleman took out of this
world with him. The young Squire was carried off by his guardians, and
Bridget was left alone.

I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last
letter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the
English wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her
chances of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman's name,
keeping it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother; his
station and fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know, far
superior to anything she had a right to expect. Then came a long
silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget's
heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of
her child. She could not write, and the Squire had managed her
communication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a
good priest there--one whom she had known at Antwerp--to write for her.
But no answer came. It was like crying into the awful stillness of
night.

One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed
to mark her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with
any of them; but the sight of her had become a part of their daily
lives, and slow wonder arose in their minds, as morning after morning
came, and her house-door remained closed, her window dead from any
glitter, or light of fire within. At length, some one tried the door;
it was locked. Two or three laid their heads together, before daring to
look in through the blank, unshuttered window. But, at last, they
summoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget's absence from their
little world was not the result of accident or death, but of
premeditation. Such small articles of furniture as could be secured
from the effects of time and damp by being packed up, were stowed away
in boxes. The picture of the Madonna was taken down, and gone. In a
word, Bridget had stolen away from her home, and left no trace whither
she was departed. I knew afterwards, that she and her litt