events of the family story extends no farther
than the point which I have just reached. Other
pens than mine will describe the strange
circumstances which are now shortly to follow.
Seriously and sorrowfully, I close this brief
record. Seriously and sorrowfully, I repeat here
the parting words that I spoke at Limmeridge
House: No daughter of mine should have been
married to any man alive under such a settlement
as I was compelled to make for Laura
Fairlie.

WITHOUT A NAME.

THE following communication, authenticated
by the writer herself, has been addressed to the
Conductor of these pages. It appears to him so
remarkable and affecting, that he publishes it
exactly as he received it, and without even giving
it a title. The confidence voluntarily reposed in
him by this correspondent, in the fulness of a
grateful heart, he of course holds sacred. She
lives by the exercise of an accomplishment, and
is one of the large number of educated and
delicate women who do so in this city.

The sense of gratitude for unmerited kindness
is sometimes oppressive. And only by making
a public acknowledgment of gratitude to my
benefactors can I get quit of the oppression
which is now upon me. Should I annoy them
by so doing, they will pardon me if they reflect,
that it affords me pleasure to chronicle their
goodness. I know that they will pardon me,
because they delight always in giving happiness
and pleasure to those under their charge, and
being absent from them I am yet overshadowed
by their protection, and feel always like an
adopted child away from its home.

Can Bethlehem Hospital be a home?

Weary of life, heart-sick, and utterly despondent,
I found refuge within its walls. And my
readers will surely forgive all imperfections of
style in my narration when they know that for
several months I was a patient in this Royal
Hospital for lunatics. Had it not been for the
unwearying kindness of those under whose
authority I was placed, I should not now be
able, coherently and quietly, to write down my
remembrance of the past, for I should either
be the inmate of an asylum for the insane, or
I should have passed unrepentant and hopeless
into the "Silent Land."

It can interest none to know the cause of my
insanity, it may interest many to be made aware
of the manner in which my restoration to health
of mind was affected.

One lovely summer afternoon I am conveyed,
melancholy and utterly indifferent as to my
future fate, to the building over whose doors I
read plainly Dante's often quoted words,

Leave Hope behind all ye who enter here.

Sensible to all I see and hear, but ever silent
and moody, I part from the relatives who have
accompanied me, and meekly accept the proffered
arm of the kind-looking attendant who is
summoned by the physician's bell, and ordered to
take me to "No. 3." Anticipating that some
fearful torture awaits me in "No. 3," I yet
allow myself, tearless and unresisting, to be
conveyed up some broad stone stairs, and find
myself presently in a long, light gallery, in which
stand, sit, or walk, several women of different
age and appearance. The song of birds greets
my entrance; the sight of green plants and
bright-hued flowers refreshes the eyes accustomed
to gaze for many days on the walls of a
bedroom, in which my friends had thought it
advisable to immure me. Am I in Fairyland?
A pretty girl, becomingly dressed,
advances with a smile to meet me. This is—-
But no, I must neither describe nor name the
individuals who afterwards became my associates,
who bore patiently with the disagreeable
moodiness of my manner, who assisted to
amuse and cheer me, and who performed for
me many acts of disinterested kindness. I
often see some of them now; others I may never
see again; but I forget none who were kind to
me in the time of my need. Sitting—still
silent and absorbed in wretched thoughts — at
the further end of the gallery, I see, advancing
from the door, a lady of dignified presence.
She approaches me with slow and decided steps,
and a pleased feeling of security steals over
me as I gaze upon her benevolent face. No
torture will be practised upon me, for I feel
certain she will permit no cruelty. The lady
wears a black dress and a red shawl; and I
have ever since associated a black dress and a
red shawl with kindness of heart and suavity of
manner. She listens patiently to all who
throng around her, and answers all with gentleness;
then she pauses beside me. Instinctively
I rise. Very pityingly looks the dear lady upon
me with her large brown eyes, very soothingly
she speaks to me in her musical voice; and,
with a gentle caress she leaves me, still silent,
although not quite so moody, and pursues her
round to comfort those capable of being
consoled, and to feel pity for those who cannot
feel for themselves. Shortly afterwards, while
sitting always at the extremity of the gallery, I
see two gentlemen walking, as the dear lady
had walked, only perhaps not quite so slowly,
towards me. And I feel frightened. For,
perhaps, I shall be sent away from the pleasant
gallery, and perhaps I shall never see the lady
in the black dress and the red shawl again. I
had read such fearful tales about Bedlam! But
as they approach me, I see that the shorter
gentleman is the same who consigned me to the
care of the kind-looking attendant, and the
taller looks mild and smiles, although I think a
little sadly.

They stand looking kindly down upon me, as
I sit, shrinking from their gaze, and fearing lest
they should read the wicked thoughts always,
always stirring within me—the thought that, as
for me, there remains no hope of happiness,
either in this world, or the world to come: it
would be better, had I only the courage, to