not be in the house. She was between ten and
eleven year old, then; slow at her lessons, poor
soul, and not so cheerful as other children— but
as pretty a little girl to look at as you would
wish to see. I waited at home till her mother
brought her back; and then I made the offer to
take her with me to London— the truth being,
sir, that I could not find it in my heart to stop
at Old Welmingham, after my husband's death,
the place was so changed and so dismal to me."

"And did Mrs. Catherick consent to your
proposal?"

"No, sir. She came back from the north,
harder and bitterer than ever. Folks did say
that she had been obliged to ask Sir Percival's
leave to go, to begin with; and that she only
went to nurse her dying sister at Limmeridge
because the poor woman was reported to have
saved money— the truth being that she hardly
left enough to bury her. These things may
have soured Mrs. Catherick, likely enough
—but, however that may be, she wouldn't hear
of my taking the child away. She seemed to
like distressing us both by parting us. All I
could do was to give Anne my direction, and to
tell her, privately, if she was ever in trouble, to
come to me. But years passed before she was
free to come. I never saw her again, poor
soul, till the night she escaped from the mad-
house."

"You know, Mrs. Clements, why Sir Percival
Glyde shut her up?"

"I only know what Anne herself told me, sir.
The poor thing used to ramble and wander about
it, sadly. She said her mother had got some
secret of Sir Percival's to keep, and had let it
out to her, long after I left Hampshire —and
when Sir Percival found she knew it, he shut
her up. But she never could say what it was,
when I asked her. All she could tell me was
that her mother might be the ruin and destruction
of Sir Percival, if she chose. Mrs. Catherick
may have let out just as much as that, and
no more. I'm next to certain I should have
heard the whole truth from Anne, if she had
really known it, as she pretended to do— and as
she very likely fancied she did, poor soul."

This idea had more than once occurred to my
own mind. I had already told Marian that I
doubted whether Laura was really on the point
of making any important discovery when she
and Anne Catherick were disturbed by Count
Fosco at the boat-house. It was perfectly in
character with Anne's mental affliction that she
should assume an absolute knowledge of the
Secret on no better grounds than vague suspicion,
derived from hints which her mother had
incautiously let drop in her presence. Sir
Percival's guilty distrust would, in that case,
infallibly inspire him with the false idea that Anne
knew all from her mother, just as it had
afterwards fixed in his mind the equally false
suspicion that his wife knew all from Anne.

The time was passing; the morning was wearing
away. It was doubtful, if I stayed longer,
whether I should hear anything more from Mrs.
Clements that would be at all useful to my
purpose. I had already discovered those local and
family particulars, in relation to Mrs. Catherick,
of which I had been in search; and I had
arrived at certain conclusions, entirely new to
me, which might immensely assist in directing
the course of my future proceedings. I rose to
take my leave, and to thank Mrs. Clements for
the friendly readiness she had shown in affording
me information.

"I am afraid you must have thought me very
inquisitive," I said. " I have troubled you with
more questions than many people would have
cared to answer."

"You are heartily welcome, sir, to anything
I can tell you," answered Mrs. Clements.
She stopped, and looked at me wistfully.
"But I do wish," said the poor woman, " you
could have told me a little more about Anne,
sir. I thought I saw something in your face,
when you came in, which looked as if you
could. You can't think how hard it is not even
to know whether she is living or dead. I could
bear it better, if I was only certain. You said
you never expected we should see her alive
again. Do you know, sir— do you know for
truth— that it has pleased God to take her?"

I was not proof against this appeal: it would
have been unspeakably mean and cruel of me if
I had resisted it.

"I am afraid there is no doubt of the truth,"
I answered, gently; " I have the certainty, in
my own mind, that her troubles in this world
are over."

The poor woman dropped into her chair, and
hid her face from me. "Oh, sir," she said,
"how do you know it? Who can have told
you:"'

"No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I
have reasons for feeling sure of it—reasons which
I promise you shall know, as soon as I can
safely explain them. I am certain she was not
neglected in her last moments; I am certain the
heart-complaint, from which she suffered so
sadly, was the true cause of her death. You
shall feel as sure of this as I do, soon—you shall
know, before long, that she is buried in a quiet
country churchyard; in a pretty, peaceful place,
which you might have chosen for her yourself."

"Dead!" said Mrs. Clements; " dead so
young—and I am left to hear it! I made her
first short frocks. I taught her to walk. The
first time she ever said, Mother, she said it to
me— and, now, I am left, and Anne is taken!
Did you say, sir," said the poor woman, removing
the handkerchief from her face, and looking up
at me for the first time—"did you say that she
had been nicely buried? Was it the sort of
funeral she might have had, if she had really
been my own child?"

I assured her that it was. She seemed to take
an inexplicable pride in my answer— to find a
comfort in it, which no other and higher
considerations could afford. " It would have broken
my heart," she said, simply, " if Anne had not
been nicely buried— but, how do you know it,
sir? who told you?" I once more entreated