reasons. She was to have gone to London—
was to have gone, I say! But you shall
hear. I supplied her with money, and gave
her a letter to our good Mrs. Marshall, my
nurse and yours, with directions to see to
her present comfort, and to arrange with a
lady, a friend of mine, how the girl could be
best sent back to her own country, to which
she was desirous to return. Her boxes were
to be forwarded to her on the receipt of a
letter from Mrs. Marshall, telling me of
Anna's safe arrival. Not having received
such a letter I became alarmed; and, three
day ago I wrote, stating all these circumstances,
and begging an instant reply. Here
is Mrs. Marshall's answer to that letter,
received this morning. Read it. What am I
to do?"

The substance of that letter the reader
will at once guess. Mrs. Marshall had seen
and heard nothing of Anna. I returned the
letter, saying,—

"I do not know how to advise in this
matter. It is very extraordinary, but let us
hope—"

"Hope!" interrupted my mother; "I
have but a choice of fears—fears which have
clung to me, and never left me, since the day
the girl went from us. You remember how
frightened I was on that night; the
violence of the wind; Mr. Garston coming
home so ill, too—how could I but be alarmed?
I was so shocking a coward, Arthur," she
added, with an attempt at a smile, "that,
when I got to bed, I lay for hours shaking
with terror, and I fancied I heard noises
in the house. I was so terrified that I got
up, put on my dressing-gown, and came to
the door of your bedroom. Yes; and I opened
it, and called 'Arthur! Arthur!' but you
were in so sound a sleep that I did not like
to disturb you. I felt ashamed of myself, and
so I went back again."

My heart leapt to my mouth at hearing
this; but the dear pathetic face of my
mother moved me beyond expression. I
kissed her tenderly, and she laid her head on
my heart and wept; nor could I forbear
tears. I fancied I knew what was then
uppermost in her mind.

"Arthur, we will go before long to the
grave of your father," she said at length; "I
wish to pray there; and you will join your
prayers to mine, will you not?"

I pressed her hand.

"But what is to be done about Anna?"
she risked, recollecting herself. "I was very
foolish. Not liking her to take the coach in
the town, for fear she should meet Mr.
Garston on his return from the sale—for I
did not wish him to see her—I directed her
to go to Turton by the way of the vale, and
meet the coach there."

I knew not how to respond to this.

My mother obtained a promise from me
to go upon an errand she was very anxious
I should perform. She little knew that my
time and trouble were not to be put into
execution to do it. She wished me to seek
out the coachman, and ascertain whether the
girl had really taken a place by his conveyance,
and gone all the way to London.

"You may tell all this to Mr. Garston, if
you like," said my mother, when I was about
to leave her.

"Not if you prefer that I should be silent."

"It will, I think, be best."

It was in no equable frame of mind that I
quitted my mother's chamber. What misery
had this ruthless man brought upon our
house! And I, compelled neither by honour,
nor conscience, nor will; but by an exacting,
inexorable necessity, to play the accomplice,
and to shield him from infamy and an
ignominious death! With a lowering brow, I
rejoined Garston in the parlour. It was
manifest that he had been awaiting my
appearance with fearful impatience.

"Your mother has detained you some
time," he said, with the best air he could
assume. "Some family matters?"

"She has been making me a very alarming
communication," I replied significantly.

"An alarming communication! what—
what communication?"

His eye involuntarily glanced towards the
hill, the summit of which was visible from
the back window. What I had to relate
considerably reassured him.

"It is very strange—extremely strange—
there is no accounting for it," and he walked
to the window.

After a few minutes, he turned quickly,
and came towards me. His eye brightened
with satisfaction at what he would have had
me believe was the idea that had suddenly
been presented to his mind:

"It has just struck me, Arthur," said he,
in a confidential tone, "and I am sure you
will agree with me (and if so, it may be as
well that our joint belief should be stated to
your mother) it strikes me that the girl has
thrown herself into the river, and been
drowned."

"In which case, Mr. Garston, her body
would have been picked up."

"That by no means follows. There were
none to see her do the act, and consequently
no search has been made. At high tide she
would have been carried over the bar, and
thence away—away—her body, not having
been washed on shore at Norland or at
the Isle of Lundy, is now in the Atlantic.
She will never be seen nor heard of more."

"And do you think this likely?" I asked.
"What could incite Anna to an act of self-
destruction? My mother loved the girl.
There seems, indeed, to have been a slight
disagreement between them—slight, because
all the measures taken by mother were
evidently dictated by a solicitude for her
welfare. The supposition that Anna had
destroyed herself would go nigh to break her
heart."