you have done, you are no good man yourself;
but I am so foolish and helpless in my great
sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a
friend in you. I cannot help trusting that,
although you may no longer feel towards
her as a lover, you will have pity upon us;
and perhaps, by your learning, you can tell
us where to go for aid."

"I implore you to tell me," I cried, almost
maddened by this suspense.

"I cannot," said she, solemnly. "I am
under a deep vow of secrecy. If you are to
be told, it must be by her." She left the
room, and I remained to ponder over this
strange interview. I mechanically turned
over the few books, and, with eyes that saw
nothing at the time, examined the tokens of
Lucy's frequent presence in that room.

When I got home at night, I remembered
how all these trifles spoke of a pure and
tender heart, and innocent life. Mistress
Clarke returned; she had been crying sadly.

"Yes," said she, "it is as I feared: she
loves you so much that she is willing to run
the fearful risk of telling you all herself—she
acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but
your sympathy will be a balm, if you give it.
To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning;
and, as you hope for pity in your hour of
agony, repress all show of fear or repugnance
you may feel towards one so grievously
afflicted."

I half smiled. "Have no fear," I said.
It seemed too absurd to imagine my feeling
dislike to Lucy.

"Her father loved her well," said she,
gravely, "yet he drove her out like some
monstrous thing."

Just at this moment came a peal of ringing
laughter from the garden. It was Lucy's
voice; it sounded as if she were standing
just on one side of the open casement. It
sounded as though she were suddenly stirred
to merriment—merriment verging on
boisterousness by the doings or sayings of some
other person. I can scarcely say why, but
the sound jarred on me inexpressibly. She
knew the subject of our conversation, and
must have been at least aware of the state of
agitation her friend was in: she herself
usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to
go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive
curiosity as to what had provoked this burst
of ill-timed laughter; but, Mrs. Clarke threw
her whole weight and power upon the hand
with which she pressed and kept me down.

"For God's sake!" she said, white and
trembling all over, "sit still; be quiet. Oh!
be patient. To-morrow you will know all.
Leave us, for we are sorely afflicted. Do
not seek to know more about us."

Again that laugh—so musical in sound,
yet so discordant to my heart. She held me
tight—tighter; without positive violence I
could not have risen. I was sitting with my
back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass
between the sun's warmth and me, and a
strange shudder ran through my frame. In
a minute or two she released me.
"Go," repeated she. "Be warned, I ask
you once more. I do not think you can
stand this knowledge that you seek. If I
had had my own way, Lucy should never
have yielded, and promised to tell you all.
Who knows what may come of it?"

"I am firm in my wish to know all. I
return at ten to-morrow morning, and then
expect to see Mistress Lucy herself."

I turned away; having my own suspicions,
I confess, as to Mistress Clarke's sanity.

Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints,
and uncomfortable thoughts connected with
that strange laughter, filled my mind. I
could hardly sleep. I arose early; and long
before the hour I had appointed, I was on
the path over the common that led to the
old farm-house where they lodged. I
suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night
than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing
with her even step, her eyes bent down, her
whole look most saintly and pure. She
started when I came close to her, and grew
paler as I reminded her of my appointment,
and spoke with something of the
impatience of obstacles that, seeing her once
more had called up afresh in my mind.
All strange and terrible hints, and giddy
merriment were forgotten. My heart gave
forth words of fire, and my tongue uttered
them. Her colour went and came, as she
listened; but, when I had ended my passionate
speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me,
and said:

"But you know that you have something
to learn about me yet. I only want to say
this: I shall not think less of you—less well
of you, I mean—if you, too, fall away from
me when you know all. Stop!" said she, as
if fearing another burst of mad words.
"Listen to me. My father is a man of great
wealth. I never knew my mother; she
must have died when I was very young.
When first I remember anything, I was living
in a great lonely house, with my dear and
faithful Mistress Clarke. My father, even,
was not there; he was—he is—a soldier,
and his duties lay abroad. But he came,
from time to time; and every time, I think
he loved me more and more. He brought
me rarities from foreign lands, which prove
to me now how much he must have thought
of me during his absences. I can sit down
and measure the depth of his lost love now,
by such standards as these. I never thought
whether he loved me or not, then; it was so
natural, that it was like the air I breathed.
Yet he was an angry man at times, even
then; but never with me. He was very
reckless, too; and once or twice I heard a
whisper among the servants that a doom was
over him, and that he knew it, and tried to
drown his knowledge in wild activity, and
even sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grew up
in this grand mansion, in that lonely place.