mysterious sorrow. Then she took up her
tale; and in few brief words, told me of
her wanderings abroad in vain search after
her daughter; sometimes in the wake of
armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in
city. The lady, whose waiting-woman Mary
had gone to be, had died soon after the date
of her last letter home; her husband, the
foreign officer, had been serving in Hungary,
whither Bridget had followed him, but too
late to find him. Vague rumours reached
her that Mary had made a great marriage;
and this sting of doubt was added,—whether
the mother might not be close to her child
under her new name, and even hearing of
her every day, and yet never recognising the
lost one under the appellation she then
bore. At length the thought took possession
of her, that it was possible that all this
time Mary might be at home at Coldholme,
in the Trough of Bolland, in Lancashire, in
England; and home came Bridget in that
vain hope to her desolate hearth, and empty
cottage. Here she had thought it safest to
remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she
would seek for her mother.

I noted down one or two particulars out of
Bridget's narrative that I thought might be
of use to me; for I was stimulated to further
search in a strange and extraordinary manner.
It seemed as if it were impressed upon
me, that I must take up the quest where
Bridget had laid it down; and this for no
reason that had previously influenced me
(such as my uncle's anxiety on the subject,
my own reputation as a lawyer, and so on),
but from some strange power which had
taken possession of my will only that very
morning, and which forced it in the direction
it chose.

"I will go," said I. "I will spare nothing
in the search. Trust to me. I will learn all
that can be learnt. You shall know all that
money, or pains, or wit can discover. It is
true she may be long dead: but she may
have left a child."

"A child!" she cried, as if for the first
time this idea had struck her mind. "Hear
him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have
left a child. And you have never told me,
though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or
sleeping!"

"Nay," said I, "I know nothing but what
you tell me. You say you heard of her
marriage."

But she caught nothing of what I said.
She was praying to the Virgin in a kind of
ecstasy, which seemed to render her
unconscious of my very presence.

From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip
Tempest's. The wife of the foreign officer
had been a cousin of his father's, and from
him I thought I might gain some particulars
as to the existence of the Count de la Tour
d'Auvergne, and where I could find him; for
I knew how questions de vive voix aid the
flagging recollection, and I was determined
to lose no chance for want of trouble. But
Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would be
some time before I could receive an answer.
So I followed my uncle's advice, to whom I
had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in
body and mind, by my will-o'-the-wisp search.
He immediately told me to go to Harrogate,
there to await Sir Philip's reply. I should
be near to one of the places connected with
my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir
Philip Tempest, in case he returned, and I
wished to ask him any further questions;
and, in conclusion, my uncle bade me try to
forget all about my business for a time.

This was far easier said than done. I
have seen a child on a common blown along
by a high wind, without power of standing
still and resisting the tempestuous force. I
was somewhat in the same predicament as
regarded my mental state. Something resistless
seemed to urge my thoughts on through
every possible course by which there was a
chance of attaining to my object. I did not
see the sweeping moors when I walked out;
when I held a book in my hand, and read the
words, their sense did not penetrate to my
brain. If I slept, I went on with the same
ideas, always flowing in the same direction.
This could not last long without having a bad
effect on the body. I had an illness, which,
although I was racked with pain, was a
positive relief to me, as it compelled me to
live in the present suffering, and not in the
visionary researches I had been continually
making before. My kind uncle came to
nurse me; and after the immediate danger
was over, my life seemed to slip away in
delicious languor for two or three months. I
did not ask—so much did I dread falling into
the old channel of thought—whether any
reply had been received to my letter to Sir
Philip. I turned my whole imagination
right away from all that subject. My uncle
remained with me until nigh summer, and
then returned to his business in London;
leaving me perfectly well, although not
completely strong. I was to follow him in a
fortnight; when, as he said, "we would look
over letters, and talk about several things."
I knew what this little speech alluded to, and
shrank from the train of thought it suggested,
which was so intimately connected
with my first feelings of illness. However, I
had a fortnight more to roam on those
invigorating Yorkshire moors.

In those days, there was one large, rambling
inn at Harrogate, close to the Medicinal
Spring; but it was already becoming too
small for the accommodation of the influx of
visitors, and many lodged round about, in
the farmhouses of the district. It was so
early in the season, that I had the inn pretty
much to myself; and, indeed, felt rather like
a visitor in a private house, so intimate had
the landlord and landlady become with me
during my long illness. She would chide me
for being out so late on the moors, or for having