frenzied manner which had startled me already.
I was afraid to agitate her by saying more; I
left all other questions to be asked at a fitter
and a quieter time. You will understand from
this, how terribly she suffers, how wildly and
strangely she acts under violent agitation; and
you will not interpret against her what she
said or did, when you saw her on Wednesday
last.

"We only returned to the house, in time to
hasten away from it to the train. Perhaps, it
was better for us so—better that we had only a
moment left to look back, before the turn in
the road hid the last of Combe-Raven from our
view, There was not a soul we knew at the
station; nobody to stare at us, nobody to wish
us good-by. The rain came on again, as we
took our seats in the train. What we felt at the
sight of the railway; what horrible
remembrances it forced on our minds of the calamity
which has made us fatherless—I cannot, and
dare not, tell you. I have tried anxiously not to
write this letter in a gloomy tone; not to return
all your kindness to us by distressing you with
our grief. Perhaps I have dwelt too long
already on the little story of our parting from
home? I can only say in excuse, that my heart
is full of it; and what is not in my heart my pen
won't write.

"We have been so short a time in our new
abode, that I have nothing more to tell you—
except that Miss Garth's sister has received us
with the heartiest kindness. She considerately
leaves us to ourselves, until we are fitter than
we are now to think of our future plans, and to
arrange as we best can for earning our own
living. The house is so large, and the position
of our rooms has been so thoughtfully chosen,
that I should hardly know—except when I hear
the laughing of the younger girls in the garden
—that we were living in a school.

"With kindest and best wishes from Miss
Garth and my sister,

"Believe me, dear Mr. Pendril,

"Gratefully yours,

"NORAH VANSTONE."

II.

FROM MISS GARTH TO MR. PENDRIL.

"Westmorland House, Kensington,

"September 23rd, 1846.

"MY DEAR SIR,—I write these lines in such
misery of mind as no words can describe.
Magdalen has deserted us. At an early hour this
morning, she secretly left the house; and she
has not been heard of since.

"I would come and speak to you personally;
but I dare not leave Norah. I must try to
control myself; I must try to write.

"Nothing happened yesterday to prepare me,
or to prepare Norah, for this last— I had almost
said, this worst—of all our afflictions. The only
alteration we either of us noticed in the
unhappy girl, was an alteration for the better when
we parted for the night. She kissed me, which
she has not done latterly; and she burst out
crying, when she embraced her sister next.
We had so little suspicion of the truth, that
we thought these signs of renewed tenderness
and affection, a promise of better things for the
future.

"This morning, at a little after eight o'clock,
when her sister went into her room, it was
empty; and a note in her handwriting, addressed
to Norah, was lying on the dressing-table. I
cannot prevail on Norah to part with the note;
I can only send you the enclosed copy of it.
You will see that it affords no clue to the direction
she has taken.

"Knowing the value of time, in this dreadful
emergency, I examined her room, and (with my
sister's help) questioned the servants,
immediately on the news of her absence reaching me.
Her wardrobe was empty; and all her boxes
but one, which she has evidently taken away
with her, are empty too. We are of opinion
that she has privately turned her dresses and
jewellery into money; that she had the one trunk
she took with her, removed from the house
yesterday; and that she left us, this morning,
on foot. The answers given by one of the
servants are so unsatisfactory, that we believe the
woman has been bribed to assist her; and has
managed all those arrangements for her flight,
which she could not have safely undertaken by
herself.

"Of the immediate object with which she
has left us, I entertain no doubt.

"I have reasons (which I can tell you at a
fitter time) for feeling assured that she has gone
away, with the intention of trying her fortune
on the stage. She has in her possession the
card of an actor by profession, who superintended
an amateur theatrical performance at
Clifton, in which she took part; and to him she
has gone to help her. I saw the card at the
time; and I know the actor's name to be
Huxtable. The address, I cannot call to mind quite
so correctly; but I am almost sure it was at
some theatrical place, in Bow-street, Covent-
garden. Let me entreat you not to lose a
moment in sending to make the necessary
inquiries; the first trace of her will, I firmly
believe, be found at that address.

"If we had nothing worse to dread than
her attempting to go on the stage, I should
not feel the distress and dismay which now
overpower me. Hundreds of other girls have
acted as recklessly as she has acted, and have
not ended ill after all. But my fears for
Magdalen do not begin and end with the risk she is
running at present.

"There has been something weighing on her
mind ever since we left Combe-Raven—weighing
far more heavily for the last six weeks
than at first. Until the period when Francis
Clare left England, I am persuaded she was
secretly sustained by the hope that he would
contrive to see her again. From the day when
she knew that the measures you had taken for
preventing this had succeeded; from the day
when she was assured that the ship had really
taken him away, nothing has roused, nothing