to her to say what I really felt. 'Are you
thankful enough to do me one little kindness?'
she asked. ' Yes, indeed,' I answered; ' any
kindness in my power I shall be glad to show
you.' ' Then let me pin your brooch on for you,
now I have found it.' Her request was so
unexpected, Marian, and she made it with such
extraordinary eagerness, that I drew back a step
or two, not well knowing what to do. ' Ah!'
she said, ' your mother would have let me pin
on the brooch.' There was something in her
voice and her look, as well as in her mentioning
my mother in that reproachful manner, which
made me ashamed of my distrust. I took her
hand with the brooch in it, and put it up gently
on the bosom of my dress. ' You knew my
mother?' I said. ' Was it very long ago? have
I ever seen you before?' Her hands were busy
fastening the brooch: she stopped and pressed
them against my breast. 'You don't remember
a fine spring day at Limmeridge,' she said, ' and
your mother walking down the path that led to
the school, with a little girl on each side of her?
I have had nothing else to think of since; and
I remember it. You were one of the little girls,
and I was the other. Pretty, clever Miss
Fairlie, and poor dazed Anne Catherick were
nearer to each other, then, than they are now!'——"

"Did you remember her, Laura, when she
told you her name?"

"Yes—I remembered your asking me about
Anne Catherick at Limmeridge, and your saying
that she had once been considered like me."
" What reminded you of that, Laura?"

"She reminded me. While I was looking
at her, while she was very close to me,
it came over my mind suddenly that we were
like each other! Her face was pale and
thin and weary—but the sight of it startled
me, as if it had been the sight of my own face in
the glass after a long illness. The discovery —I
don't know why— gave me such a shock, that I
was perfectly incapable of speaking to her, for
the moment."

"Did she seem hurt by your silence?"

"I am afraid she was hurt by it. ' You
have not got your mother's face,' she said
'or your mother's heart. Your mother's face
was dark; and your mother's heart, Miss
Fairlie, was the heart of an angel.' I am
sure I feel kindly towards you,' I said, ' though
I may not be able to express it as I ought.
Why do you call me Miss Fairlie?'
' Because I love the name of Fairlie and hate
the name of Glyde,' she broke out, violently. "I
had seen nothing like madness in her before
this; but I fancied I saw it now in her eyes.
'I only thought you might not know I was
married,' I said, remembering the wild letter she
wrote to me at Limmeridge, and trying to quiet
her. She sighed bitterly, and turned away
from me. ' Not know you were married!' she
repeated. ' I am here because you are married. I
am here to make atonement to you, before I
meet your mother in the world beyond the
grave.' She drew farther and farther away
from me, till she was out of the boat-house—
and, then, she watched and listened for a little
while. When she turned round to speak again,
instead of coming back, she stopped where she
was, looking in at me, with a hand on each
side of the entrance. 'Did you see me at
the lake last night?' she said. ' Did you hear
me following you in the wood? I have been
waiting for days together to speak to you
alone—I have left the only friend I have in
the world, anxious and frightened about me—
I have risked being shut up again in the
madhouse and all for your sake, Miss Fairlie,
all for your sake.' Her words alarmed me,
Marian; and yet, there was something in the
way she spoke, that made me pity her with
all my heart. I am sure my pity must have
been sincere, for it made me bold enough
to ask the poor creature to come in, and sit
down in the boat-house, by my side."

"Did she do so?"

"No. She shook her head, and told me she
must stop where she was, to watch and listen,
and see that no third person surprised us. And
from first to last, there she waited at the
entrance, with a hand on each side of it;
sometimes bending in suddenly to speak to me;
sometimes drawing back suddenly to look about
her. ' I was here yesterday,' she said, ' before
it came dark; and I heard you, and the lady
with you, talking together. I heard you tell
her about your husband. I heard you say you
had no influence to make him believe you, and
no influence to keep him silent. Ah! I knew
what those words meant; my conscience told me
while I was listening. Why did I ever let you
marry him! Oh, my fear—my mad, miserable,
wicked fear! ' She covered up her face
in her poor worn shawl, and moaned and
murmured to herself behind it. I began to be
afraid she might break out into some terrible
despair which neither she nor I could master.
'Try to quiet yourself,' I said; 'try to tell
me how you might have prevented my
marriage.' She took the shawl from her face,
and looked at me vacantly. ' I ought to have
had heart enough to stop at Limmeridge,'
she answered. ' I ought never to have let the
news of his coming there frighten me away. I
ought to have warned you and saved you before
it was too late. Why did I only have courage
enough to write you that letter? Why did I
only do harm, when I wanted and meant to do
good? Oh, my fear—my mad, miserable,
wicked fear!' She repeated those words again,
and hid her face again in the end of her poor
worn shawl. It was dreadful to see her, and
dreadful to hear her."

"Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was
which she dwelt on so earnestly?"

"Yes; I asked that."

"And what did she say?"

"She asked me, in return, if I should not be
afraid of a man who had shut me up in a mad-
house, and who would shut me up again, if he
could? I said, ' Are you afraid still? Surely
you would not be here, if you were afraid now?'