room, drew me out with her to the belt of turf
which surrounded the large fish-pond.

As we passed the Count on the steps, he
bowed and smiled, and then went at once into
the house; pushing the hall-door to after him,
but not actually closing it.

The Countess walked me gently round the
fish-pond. I expected to be made the depositary
of some extraordinary confidence; and I was
astonished to find that Madame Fosco's
communication for my private ear was nothing more
than a polite assurance of her sympathy for me,
after what had happened in the library. Her
husband had told her of all that had passed,
and of the insolent manner in which Sir Percival
had spoken to me. This information had so
shocked and distressed her, on my account and
on Laura's, that she had made up her mind, if
anything of the sort happened again, to mark
her sense of Sir Percival's outrageous conduct
by leaving the house. The Count had approved
of her idea, and she now hoped that I approved
of it, too.

I thought this a very strange proceeding on
the part of such a remarkably reserved woman
as Madame Fosco—especially after the
interchange of sharp speeches which had passed
between us during the conversation in the boat-
house, on that very morning. However, it was
my plain duty to meet a polite and friendly
advance, on the part of one of my elders, with
a polite and friendly reply. I answered the
Countess, accordingly, in her own tone; and
then, thinking we had said all that was necessary
on either side, made an attempt to get back to
the house.

But Madame Fosco seemed resolved not to
part with me, and, to my unspeakable amazement,
resolved also to talk. Hitherto, the most
silent of women, she now persecuted me with
fluent conventionalities on the subject of married
life, on the subject of Sir Percival and Laura,
on the subject of her own happiness, on the
subject of the late Mr. Fairlie's conduct to
her in the matter of her legacy, and on half a
dozen other subjects besides, until she had
detained me, walking round and round the fish-
pond for more than half an hour, and had
quite wearied me out. Whether she
discovered this, or not, I cannot say, but she
stopped as abruptly as she had begun—looked
towards the house door—resumed her icy manner
in a moment—and dropped my arm of her own
accord, before I could think of an excuse for
accomplishing my own release from her.

As I pushed open the door, and entered the
hall, I found myself suddenly face to face with
the Count again. He was just putting a letter
into the post-bag.

After he had dropped it in, and had closed the
bag, he asked me where I had left Madame
Fosco. I told him; and he went out at the hall
door, immediately, to join his wife. His manner,
when he spoke to me, was so unusually quiet and
subdued that I turned and looked after him,
wondering if he were ill or out of spirits.

Why my next proceeding was to go straight
up to the post-bag, and take out my own letter,
and look at it again, with a vague distrust on
me; and why the looking at it for the second
time instantly suggested the idea to my mind
of sealing the envelope for its greater security
—are mysteries which are either too deep or
too shallow for me to fathom. Women, as
everybody knows, constantly act on impulses
which they cannot explain even to themselves;
and I can only suppose that one of those impulses
was the hidden cause of my unaccountable
conduct on this occasion.

Whatever influence animated me, I found
cause to congratulate myself on having obeyed
it as soon as I prepared to seal the letter
in my own room. I had originally closed the
envelope, in the usual way, by moistening the
adhesive point and pressing it on the paper
beneath; and, when I now tried it with my
finger, after a lapse of full three-quarters of an
hour, the envelope opened on the instant, without
sticking or tearing. Perhaps I had fastened it
insufficiently? Perhaps there might have been
some defect in the adhesive gum?

Or, perhaps——No! it is quite revolting
enough to feel that third conjecture stirring in
my mind. I would rather not see it confronting
me, in plain black and white.

I almost dread to-morrow—so much depends
on my discretion and self-control. There are
two precautions, at all events, which I am sure
not to forget. One of them is, to keep up
friendly appearances with the Count; and the
other to be well on my guard, when the messenger
from the office comes here with the answer
to my letter.

TURKISH PRISONS.

ONLY last night I was miles away, in a lonely
bay of the Sea of Marmora, listening to the
boatmen's self-encouraging shout of "Allah!"
and watching the sea boil into white dripping
fire, as the strong oars dipped simultaneously in
the phosphorescent water. To-day I am safe in
Galata, drinking Scotch ale for luncheon, at a
downright British store, and discussing Burns's
songs with a discontented Glasgow man, Mac
Phun, who is a humorist upon compulsion, and
famous for his "wut" (among his country-
men). Suddenly an Armenian porter comes
for me from the Bank, and, going there, I find
Grimani, the dragoman to the Kamtschatka
embassy, and Dr. Opinkoff, the Russian doctor,
a blunt, kindly, sagacious man, and my special
ally in the land of turbans. They are holding
a great palaver about the state of the Turkish
prisons, and the necessity of some reform. Dr.
Opinkoff and Grimani are just setting out for
the Bagnio, the prison of the galley slaves, the
horrid den of wickedness so vigorously depicted
in that oft-read novel of my youth, Anastasius,
to the truth of which clever book every
resident in the East has testified. The doctor is
obliged to pay a periodical visit to this hell upon
earth, to report upon any Russian subject who