window, (for the wet drove the other way,)
when she came past and looked in. I do
not hold with that popular delusion of my
sex, that every woman who casts her eyes
upon me does so with nefarious designs on
my affections, or that a frank good-humoured
manner is a guileful trap laid to catch my
unwary hand; so, when the lady passed and
looked in with a pair of remarkable eyes,
instead of hastily concealing myself, I looked
after her with some astonishment that she
should choose such weather for her walk.
She stopped and gazed through the iron railings
across the bit of garden straight at me,
and then I perceived that, in those large
remarkable eyes of hers, there was no longer
any charm for the heart of man: the Lady
on the Mall was mad. Touched with pity,
I called out to ask her if she would come in
for shelter until the rain was over. She
shook her head; but I pressed my invitation
more kindly; yet she only smiled, sighed, and
spreading out her hands with a gesture of
indifference, replied, " Thanks, sir, but I can
bear the rain. Still did I hear aright—that
you asked me under your roof?"

I answered, Yes: that I should be very glad
if she would come in and rest; but, after
another prolonged stare, she smiled, sighed,
and spread out her hands, again saying:

"O, I don't mind the rain at all. Thanks.
Neither the wind nor the rain. I have been
out in worse than this. Much worse than
this."

She did not attempt to move on, but was
obstinate about not sheltering. She stood and
watched me through the railings until every
garment she wore clung to her with wet.
Perceiving that she was determined not to
come in, I suggested to her the propriety of
going home.

"I will go, when it is over," said she,
shuddering.

I told her I did not think that it would be
over for a long time; it looked like a day set
in for wet.

"O, the rain? I did not mean that,"
replied she. " O, no; the execution."

She then made me a polite bow, and
walked forward towards the town: as one
o'clock struck she came back, and, stopping
in the same place, said:

"Ah, sir, they have taken his body down—
he is dead now; " after an instant's pause
she grasped one of the rails, and shook it,
exclaiming vehemently: " Jealousy is the
Devil! " and then started off up the Mall.

Here was the germ of some mysterious
tragedy, before the facts of which speculation
recoiled, baffled. She seemed to be from forty
to forty-five years of age, with a tall, graceful
air and shape; her features were thin to
emaciation, but regular; and her eyes were
black as midnight, with an insane light in
their depths, now dreamy, now glittering. Her
hair was perfectly grey, and she dressed in
plain, grave colours, like half mourning. She
had the general aspect of belonging 'to the
educated classes of society, and spoke with a
correct accent and rather pleasant intonation.
When she clutched the railing, I had observed
upon her hand the glitter of a wedding
ring.

Most idle persons are inquisitive; I am
inquisitive; but more, I think, from habit
than nature: still the result is the same.
This poor lady's ways, words, and appearance
excited my cariosity vividly, and the next
time my landlady made her appearance in
my room, I asked: " Can you tell me who
that lady is who comes out upon the Mall
every day about noon?"

"O, she is crazy, sir; she is a Mrs. Bond;
and folks do say that her husband was hanged
as much as six-and-twenty years ago. I
can't undertake to speak to the truth of it
myself, but that is what I've heard. She is
well enough off for money, and lives up at
Doctor Cruse's. She came there a young
widow as long since as I tell you—better
than six-and-twenty years."

I had, I thought, no right to
penetrate further; but, out of these prominent
though slender outlines, my imagination
sought to construct a complete and finished
edifice. That white worn face became
rejuvenated with the bloom of seventeen;
those passionate eyes beamed with innocent
love; that grey hair crowned the sweet
brow with grape-like clusters; those dry
haggard lips swelled with the rosy warmth
of budding youth—above all, that maiden
heart had not branded upon it, in unavailing
remorse and sorrow, that key-note of
her history, Jealousy is the Devil. I saw
her happy in a happy home; the vivifying
sunshine of the family; quick of temper;
lavish of affection and exacting of it too;
proud in character, brilliant of intellect, witty
of speech, generous of hand; a beautiful human
creature; faulty, but capable of great things,
either for good or for evil as the temptations
of life might turn. The grand crisis of
woman's existence had not taxed her strength
with any disappointment: she loved, and she
had love at her desire. Happy days of
courtship, whose slight showers only served
to brighten the sunshine, floated over her in
blessed calm. I have a tender sympathy for
all young creatures dwelling in this sweet
May-month of life; it pleases me inexpressibly
to watch the shy delights, the quick alarms
that tremble like sun and cloud on the opening
flowers of love; I like to see them
gathered tenderly and stored for their
enduring sweetness in two hearts united; but
to see them rudely torn up and scattered to
the winds, or trampled down with reckless
feet, or blasted by an east wind of pitiless
misfortune, makes my soul shiver; rather
let them blossom, as blossom all the passion-
flowers I ever loved, upon a solitary grave.

Let me trace this girl's story on. No doubt
remains with me that she gave her whole