"Had you no father or mother to take care
of you?"

"Father? I never saw him; I never heard
mother speak of him. Father? Ah, dear! he
is dead, I suppose."

"And your mother?"

"I don't get on well with her. We are a
trouble and a fear to each other."

A trouble and a fear to each other! At those
words, the suspicion crossed my mind for the
first time, that her mother might be the person
who had placed her under restraint.

"Don't ask me about mother," she went on.
"I'd rather talk of Mrs. Clements. Mrs.
Clements is like you, she doesn't think that I
ought to be back in the Asylum; and she is as
glad as you are that I escaped from it. She
cried over my misfortune, and said it must be
kept secret from everybody."

Her "misfortune." In what sense was she
using that word? In a sense which might
explain her motive in writing the anonymous
letter? In a sense which might show it to be
the too common and too customary motive that
has led many a woman to interpose anonymous
hindrances to the marriage of the man who has
ruined her? I resolved to attempt the clearing
up of this doubt, before more words passed
between us on either side.

"What misfortune?" I asked.

"The misfortune of my being shut up," she
answered, with every appearance of feeling
surprised at my question. "What other
misfortune could there be?"

I determined to persist, as delicately and
forbearingly as possible. It was of very great
importance that I should be absolutely sure of
every step in the investigation that I now gained
in advance.

"There is another misfortune," I said, " to
which a woman may be liable, and by which she
may suffer life-long sorrow and shame."

"What is it?" she asked, eagerly.

"The misfortune of believing too innocently
in her own virtue, and in the faith and honour
of the man she loves," I answered.

She looked up at me, with the artless
bewilderment of a child. Not the slightest
confusion or change of colour; not the faintest
trace of any secret consciousness of shame struggling
to the surface, appeared in her face—that
face which betrayed every other emotion with
such transparent clearness. No words that
ever were spoken could have assured me, as her
look and manner now assured me, that the
motive which I had assigned for her writing the
letter and sending it to Miss Fairlie was plainly
and distinctly the wrong one. That doubt, at
any rate, was now set at rest; but the very
removal of it opened a new prospect of
uncertainty. The letter, as I knew from positive
testimony, pointed at Sir Percival Glyde, though
it did not name him. She must have had some
strong motive, originating in some deep sense
of injury, for secretly denouncing him to
Miss Fairlie, in such terms as she had
employed—and that motive was unquestionably
not to be traced to the loss of her innocence
and her character. Whatever wrong he might
have inflicted on her was not of that nature.
Of what nature could it be?

"I don't understand you," she said, after
evidently trying hard, and trying in vain to
discover the meaning of the words I had last
said to her.

"Never mind," I answered. "Let us go on
with what we were talking about. Tell me how
long you stayed with Mrs. Clements in London,
and how you came here."

"How long?" she repeated. " I stayed with
Mrs. Clements till we both came to this place,
two days ago."

"You are living in the village, then?" I said.
"It is strange I should not have heard of you,
though you have only been there two days."

"No, no; not in the village. Three miles
away at a farm. Do you know the farm? They
call it Todd's Corner."

I remembered the place perfectly; we had
often passed by it in our drives. It was one of
the oldest farms in the neighbourhood, situated
in a solitary, sheltered spot, inland, at the
junction of two hills.

"They are relations of Mrs. Clements at
Todd's Corner," she went on, " and they had
often asked her to go and see them. She said
she would go, and take me with her, for the
quiet and the fresh air. It was very kind, was
it not? I would have gone anywhere to be
quiet, and safe, and out of the way. But when
I heard that Todd's Corner was near Limmeridge
—oh! I was so happy I would have walked all
the way barefoot to get there, and see the
schools and the village and Limmeridge House
again. They are very good people at Todd's
Corner. I hope I shall stay there a long time.
There is only one thing I don't like about them,
and don't like about Mrs. Clements——"

"What is it?"

"They will tease me about dressing all in
white—they say it looks so particular. How do
they know? Mrs. Fairlie knew best. Mrs.
Fairlie would never have made me wear this ugly
blue cloak. Ah! she was fond of white in her
lifetime; and here is white stone about her
grave—and I am making it whiter for her sake.
She often wore white herself; and she always
dressed her little daughter in white. Is Miss
Fairlie well and happy? Does she wear white
now, as she used when she was a girl?"

Her voice sank when she put the questions
about Miss Fairlie; and she turned her head
farther and farther away from me. I thought I
detected, in the alteration in her manner, an
uneasy consciousness of the risk she had run in
sending the anonymous letter; and I instantly
determined so to frame my answer as to surprise
her into owning it.

"Miss Fairlie is not very well or very happy
this morning," I said.

She murmured a few words; but they were
spoken so confusedly, and in such a low tone,
that I could not even guess at what they meant.

"Did you ask me why Miss Fairlie was