Madonna was taken down, and gone. In a
word, Bridget had stolen away from her
home, and left no trace where she was
departed. I knew afterwards, that she and
her little dog had wandered off on the long
search for her lost daughter. She was too
illiterate to have faith in letters, even had she
had the means of writing and sending many.
But she had faith in her own strong love, and
believed that her passionate instinct would
guide her to her child. Besides, foreign travel
was no new thing to her, and she could speak
enough of French to explain the object of
her journey, and had moreover the advan-
of being, from her faith, a welcome
object of charitable hospitality at many a
distant convent. But the country people
round Starkey Manor House knew nothing
of all this. They wondered what had
become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and
then left off thinking of her altogether.
Several years passed. Both Manor House and
cottage were deserted. The young Squire
lived far away under the direction of his
guardians. There were inroads of wool and
corn into the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and
some low talk, from time to time, among the
hinds and country-people, whether it would
not be as well to break into old Bridget's
cottage, and save such of her goods as were
left from the moth and rust which must be
making sad havoc. But this idea was always
quenched by the recollection of her strong
character, and passionate anger; and tales of
her masterful spirit, and vehement force of
will were whispered about, till the very
thought of offending her, by touching any
article of hers, became invested with a kind
of horror; it was believed that dead or alive
she would not fail to avenge it.

Suddenly, she came home; with as little
noise or note of preparation as she had
departed. One day, some one noticed a thin,
blue curl of smoke, ascending from her chimney.
Her door stood open to the noon-day
sun; and ere many hours had elapsed, some
one had seen an old travel and sorrow-stained
woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and
said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked
up at him were more like Bridget Fitzgerald's
than any one else's in this world; and yet, if
it were she, she looked as if she had been
scorched in the flames of hell, so brown, and
scared, and fierce a creature did she seem.
By-and-by, many saw her; and those who
met her eye once, cared not to be caught
looking at her again. She had got into the
habit of perpetually talking to herself; nay,
more, answering herself, and varying her
tones according to the side she took at the
moment. It was no wonder that those who
dared to listen outside her door at night,
believed that she held converse with some
spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning
for herself the dread reputation of a witch.
Her little dog, which had wandered half over
the Continent with her, was her only companion;
a dumb remembrancer of happier days.
Once he was ill; and she carried him more than
three miles, to ask about his management
from one who had been groom to the last
Squire, and had then been noted for his skill
in all diseases of animals. Whatever this
man did, the dog recovered; and they
who heard her thanks, intermingled with
blessings (that were rather promises of
good fortune than prayers) looked grave
at his good luck when, next year, his ewes
twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy
and thick.

Now it so happened that, about the year
seventeen hundred and eleven, one of
the guardians of the young Squire, a
certain Sir Philip Tempest, bethought
him of the good shooting there must be
on his ward's property; and in
consequence, he brought down four or five
gentlemen of his friends to stay for a week or
two at the Hall. From all accounts, they
roystered and spent pretty freely. I never
heard any of their names but one, and that
was Squire Gisborne's. He was hardly a
middle-aged man then; he had been much
abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir
Philip Tempest, and done him some service.
He was a daring and dissolute fellow in those
days; careless and fearless, and one who
would rather be in a quarrel than out of it.
He had his fits of ill-temper beside, when he
would spare neither man nor beast. Otherwise,
those who knew him well, used to
say he had a good heart, when he was
neither drunk, nor angry, nor in any way
vexed. He had altered much when I came
to know him.

One day, the gentlemen had all been out
shooting, and with but little success, I believe;
any how, Mr. Gisborne had had none, and
was in a black humour accordingly. He was
coming home, having his gun loaded,
sports-man-like, when little Mignon crossed his
path, just as he turned out of the wood by
Bridget's cottage. Partly for wantonness,
partly to vent his spleen upon some living
creature, Mr. Gisborne took his gun, and fired
he had better have never fired gun again,
than aimed that unlucky shot. He hit
Mignon; and at the creature's sudden cry,
Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what
had been done. She took Mignon up in her
arms, and looked hard at the wound; the
poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes,
and tried to wag his tail and lick her hand,
all covered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke
in a kind of sullen penitence:

"You should have kept the dog out of my
way; a little poaching varmint."

At this very moment, Mignon stretched
out his legs, and stiffened in her arms—her
lost Mary's dog, who had wandered and
sorrowed with her for years. She walked right
into Mr. Gisbome's path, and fixed his
unwilling, sullen look with her dark and
terrible eye.