by her loving anxiety these visits would be
frequent, and, unless Alfred was kept constantly
locked up, which was repugnant to her, they
would meet some day. She knew there are men
who ply the trade of spies, and where to find
them; she set one of them to watch Mrs. Dodd's
house, and learn her habits, in hopes of getting
some clue as to when she might be expected.

Now it so happened that looking for one thing
she found another which gave her great hopes
and courage. And then the sight of Alfred's
misery tried her patience, and then he was
beginning half to suspect her of stopping his
letters. Passion, impatience, pity, and calculation,
all drove her the same road, and led to an
extraordinary scene, so impregnated with the
genius of the madhouse—a place where the
passions run out to the very end of their tether—
that I feel little able to describe it; I will try
and indicate it.

One fine Sunday afternoon then she asked
Alfred languidly would he like to walk in the country.

"Would I like? Ah, don't trifle with a
prisoner," said he sorrowfully.

She shook her head. "No, no, it will not be a
happy walk; Rooke, who hates you, is to follow
us with that terrible mastiff, to pull you down if
you try to escape. I could not get Dr. Wolf to
consent on any other terms; Alfred, let us give
up the idea. I fear your rashness."

"No, no, I won't try to escape—from you. I
have not seen a blade of grass this six months."

The accomplished dissembler hesitated, yielded.
They passed through the yard and out at the
back door, which Alfred had so often looked wistfully
at; and by-and-by reached a delicious pasture;
a light golden haze streamed across it;
Nature never seemed so sweet, so divine, to Alfred
before; the sun as bright as midsummer, though
not the least hot, the air fresh, yet genial, and
perfumed with Liberty and the smaller flowers
of earth; Beauty glided rustling by his side, and dark
eyes subdued their native fire into softness whenever
they turned on him; and scarce fifty yards in
the rear hung a bully and a mastiff ready to tear
him down if he should break away from beauty's
light hand, that rested so timidly on his. He was
young, and stout-hearted, and relished his peep
of liberty and nature, though blotted by Vulcan
and Rooke. He chatted to Mrs. Archbold in
good spirits. She answered briefly, and listlessly.

At last she stopped under a young chesnut-tree
as if overcome with a sudden reflection, and
turning  half away from him leaned her head and
hand upon a bough and sighed. The attitude
was pensive and womanly. He asked her with
innocent concern what was the matter; then
faintly should he take her home. All her answer
was to press his hand with hers that was disengaged,
and, instead of sighing, to cry.

The novice in woman's wiles set himself to
comfort her— in vain: to question her—in vain at
first, but by degrees she allowed him to learn
that it was for him she mourned; and so they
proceeded on the old, old plan, the man extorting
from the woman bit by bit just so much as she
wanted all along to say, and would have poured
in a stream if let quite alone.

He drew from his distressed friend that Dr.
Wolf for reasons of his own had made special
inquiries about the Dodds; that she had fortunately
or unfortunately heard of this, and had
questioned the person employed, hoping to hear
something that might comfort Alfred. "Instead
of that," said she, "I find Miss Dodd is like most
girls; out of sight is out of mind with her."

"What do you mean?" said Alfred, trembling
suddenly.

"Do not ask me. What a weak fool I was to
let you see I was unhappy for you."

"The truth is the truth," gasped Alfred: "tell
me at once."

"Must I? I am afraid you will hate me; for
I should hate any one who told me your faults.
Well, then—if I must — Miss Dodd has a beau."

"It is a lie!" cried Alfred furiously.

"I wish it was. But she has two in fact, both
of them clergymen: however, one seems the
favourite; at least they are engaged to be married;
it is Mr. Hurd, the curate of the parish she lives
in. By what I hear she is one of the religious
ones: so perhaps that has brought the pair to an
understanding."

At these words a cold sickness rushed all over
Alfred, beginning at his heart. He stood white
and stupified a moment: then, in the anguish of
his heart, broke out into a great and terrible cry:
it was like a young lion wounded with a poisoned
shaft.

Then he was silent, and stood stock still, like
petrified despair.

Mrs. Archbold was prepared for an outburst:
but not of this kind. His anguish was so unlike
a woman's that it staggered her. Her good and
bad angels, to use an expressive though somewhat
too poetical phrase, battled for her. She
had an impulse to earn his gratitude for life, to
let him out of the asylum ere Julia should be
Mrs. Hurd, and even liberty come too late for
true love. She looked again at the statue of
grief by her side: and burst out crying in earnest.
This was unfortunate. Shallow pity exuding
in salt water leaves not enough behind to gush
forth in good deeds.

She only tried to undo her own work in part;
to comfort him a little with common-places: she
told him in a soothing whisper there were other
women in the world besides this inconstant girl,
others who could love him as he deserved.

He made no answer to all she could say, but
just waved his hand once impatiently. Petty
consolation seemed to sting him.

Then she began to feel impatient, angry.
"How he clings to that fickle girl," she said. "I
might as well make love to a stone."

Then they stood both of them apart in sombre
silence awhile.

Her mood changed; she moved noiselessly
towards him, and, standing half behind him, laid