left to conceal. You mention no names in the
letter; but Miss Fairlie knows that the person
you write of is Sir Percival Glyde——"

The instant I pronounced that name, she
started to her feet; and a scream burst from her
that rang through the churchyard and made my
heart leap in me with the terror of it. The
dark deformity of the expression which had just
left her face, lowered on it once more, with
doubled and trebled intensity. The shriek at
the name, the reiterated look of hatred and fear
that instantly followed, told all. Not even a
last doubt now remained. Her mother was
guiltless of imprisoning her in the Asylum. A
man had shut her up—and that man was Sir
Percival Glyde.

The scream had reached other ears than mine.
On one side, I heard the door of the sexton's
cottage open; on the other, I heard the voice of
her companion, the woman in the shawl, the
woman whom she had spoken of as Mrs.
Clements.

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" cried the voice,
from behind the clump of dwarf trees.

In a moment more, Mrs. Clements hurried
into view.

"Who are you?" she cried, facing me
resolutely, as she set her foot on the stile. "How
dare you frighten a poor helpless woman like
that?"

She was at Anne Catherick's side, and had
put one arm around her, before I could answer.
"What is it, my dear?" she said. "What has
he done to you?"

"Nothing," the poor creature answered.
"Nothing. I'm only frightened."

Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless
indignation, for which I respected her.

"I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I
deserved that angry look," I said. " But I do
not deserve it. I have unfortunately startled
her, without intending it. This is not the first
time she has seen me. Ask her yourself, and
she will tell you that I am incapable of willingly
harming her or any woman."

I spoke distinctly, so that Anne Catherick
might hear and understand me: and I saw that
the words and their meaning had reached her.

"Yes, yes," she said; "he was good to me
once; he helped me——" She whispered the
rest into her friend's ear.

"Strange, indeed!" said Mrs. Clements, with
a look of perplexity. " It makes all the
difference, though. I'm sorry I spoke so rough to
you, sir; but you must own that appearances
looked suspicious to a stranger. It's more my
fault than yours, for humouring her whims, and
letting her be alone in such a place as this.
Come, my dear—come home, now."

I thought the good woman looked a little
uneasy at the prospect of the walk back, and I
offered to go with them until they were both
within sight of home. Mrs. Clements thanked
me civilly, and declined. She said they were
sure to meet some of the farm-labourers, as soon
as they got to the moor.

"Try to forgive me," I said, when Anne
Catherick took her friend's arm to go away.
Innocent as I had been of any intention to
terrify and agitate her, my heart smote me as I
looked at the poor, pale, frightened face.

"I will try," she answered. " But you know
too much; I'm afraid you will always frighten
me now."

Mrs. Clements glanced at me, and shook her
head pityingly.

"Good night, sir," she said. "You couldn't
help it, I know; but I wish it was me you had
frightened, and not her."

They moved away a few steps. I thought
they had left me; but Anne suddenly stopped,
and separated herself from her friend.

"Wait a little," she said. "I must say good-by."

She returned to the grave, rested both hands
tenderly on the marble cross, and kissed it.

"I'm better, now," she sighed, looking up at
me quietly. "I forgive you."

She joined her companion again, and they left
the burial-ground. I saw them stop near the
church, and speak to the sexton's wife, who had
come from the cottage, and had waited, watching
us from a distance. Then they went on again up
the path that led to the moor. I looked after
Anne Catherick as she disappeared, till all trace
of her had faded in the twilight—looked, as
anxiously and sorrowfully, as if that was the last
I was to see in this weary world of the woman
in white.

FAIR AND FOUL CIRCASSIANS.

Two months ago, Constantinople was filled
with exiled Circassians; a brave nation had
succumbed to the power of Russia; another race
had been absorbed by the great creeping glacier
that turns all it meets, to death. Ten thousand
dagger-wearing, woolly-capped Tchirgees, as the
Turks call them, were swarming in the bazaars,
coffee-shops, kibab stalls, and khans. They
were to be seen, rude and sullen, chafed and
spirit-broken, at every fountain, and under
every mosque wall. The Sultan had received
them as guests, and had lavishly given each
man about fourpence a week for his support:
an ample, yet not a fattening largesse. He had
also cleared out a huge khan or barrack, a vast
building that would hold thousands of people,
for their use. Some restraint was laid, I think,
upon their silver-ringed matchlocks, for the sake
of the safety of true Mussulmans: for, the Tchirgee
is a good marksman, and is of a choleric and
rather tigery nature. Besides, a man just
escaped, bleeding and rib-broken, from the gripe
of a bear, is not in the best of humour. Therefore,
when I relate that these mountaineers
sometimes used their broad daggers a little
hastily—about so small a thing as even a smoky
kibab, or a damaged melon—you will not allow
your opinion to be lowered of a brave, devoted,
and unfortunate people.

Constantinople—never a convenient or luxurious
place for the promenader, with its narrow