on either side. From time to time, being
forbidden to make any more enquiries, I stole a
look at her face. It was always the same; the
lips close shut, the brow frowning, the eyes
looking straight forward, eagerly and yet
absently. We had reached the first houses, and
were close on the new Wesleyan College, before
her set features relaxed, and she spoke once
more.

"Do you live in London?" she said.

"Yes." As I answered, it struck me that
she might have formed some intention of
appealing to me for assistance or advice, and that
I ought to spare her a possible disappointment
by warning her of my approaching absence from
home. So l added: "But to-morrow I shall
be away from London for some time. I am
going into the country."

"Where?" she asked. "North, or south?"

"North— to Cumberland."

"Cumberland!" she repeated the word
tenderly. "Ah! I wish I was going there, too.
I was once happy in Cumberland."

I tried again to lift the veil that hung
between this woman and me.

"Perhaps you were born," I said, "in the
beautiful Lake country."

"No," she answered. "I was born in
Hampshire; but I once went to school for a little
while in Cumberland. Lakes? I don't
remember any lakes. It's Limmeridge village,
and Limmeridge House, I should like to see
again."

It was my turn, now, to stop suddenly. In
the excited state of my curiosity, at that
moment, the chance reference to Mr. Fairlie's
place of residence, on the lips of my strange
companion, staggered me with astonishment.

"Did you hear anybody calling after us?"
she asked, looking up and down the road
affrightedly, the instant I stopped.

"No, no. I was only struck by the name of
Limmeridge House— I heard it mentioned by
some Cumberland people a few days since."

"Ah! not my people. Mrs. Fairlie is dead;
and her husband is dead; and their little girl
may be married and gone away by this time. I
can't say who lives at Limmeridge now. If
any more are left there of that name, I only
know I love them for Mrs. Fairlie's sake."

She seemed about to say more; but while she
was speaking, we came within view of the
turnpike, at the top of the Avenue-road. Her
hand tightened round my arm, and she looked
anxiously at the gate before us.

"Is the turnpike man looking out?" she
asked.

He was not looking out; no one else was near
the place when we passed through the gate.
The sight of the gas-lamps and houses seemed
to agitate her, and to make her impatient.

"This is London," she said. "Do you see
any carriage I can get? I am tired and
frightened. I want to shut myself in, and be
driven away."

I explained to her that we must walk a little
further to get to a cab-stand, unless we were
fortunate enough to meet with an empty
vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject
of Cumberland. It was useless. That idea of
shutting herself in, and being driven away, had
now got full possession of her mind. She could
think and talk of nothing else.

We had hardly proceeded a third of the way
down the Avenue-road, when I saw a cab draw
up at a house a few doors below us, on the
opposite side of the way. A gentleman got out
and let himself in at the garden door. I hailed
the cab, as the driver mounted the box again.
When we crossed the road, my companion's
impatience increased to such an extent that she
almost forced me to run.

"It's so late," she said. "I am only in a
hurry because it's so late."

"I can't take you, sir, if you're not going
towards Tottenham-court-road," said the driver,
civilly, when I opened the cab door. "My
horse is dead beat, and I can't get him no further
than the stable."

"Yes, yes. That will do for me. I'm going
that way— I'm going that way. "She spoke
with breathless eagerness, and pressed by me
into the cab.

I had assured myself that the man was sober
as well as civil, before I let her enter the vehicle.
And now, when she was seated inside, I entreated
her to let me see her set down safely at her
destination.

"No, no, no," she said, vehemently. "I'm
quite safe and quite happy now. If you are a
gentleman, remember your promise. Let him
drive on, till I stop him. Thank you— oh!
thank you, thank you!"

My hand was on the cab door. She caught it
in hers, kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab
drove off at the same moment— I started into
the road, with some vague idea of stopping it
again, I hardly knew why— hesitated from dread
of frightening and distressing her— called, at
last, but not loudly enough to attract the driver's
attention. The sound of the wheels grew fainter
in the distance— the cab melted into the black
shadows on the road— the woman in white was
gone.

Ten minutes, or more, had passed. I was still
on the same side of the way; now mechanically
walking forward a few paces; now stopping
again absently. At one moment, I found myself
doubting the reality of my own adventure; at
another, I was perplexed and distressed by an
uneasy sense of having done wrong, which yet
left me confusedly ignorant of how I could have
done right. I hardly knew where I was going,
or what I meant to do next; I was conscious
of nothing but the confusion of my own
thoughts, when. I was abruptly recalled to
myself— awakened I might almost say— by the
sound of rapidly approaching wheels close
behind me.

I was on the dark side of the road, in the
thick shadow of some garden trees, when I
stopped to look round. On the opposite, and
lighter, side of the way, a short distance below