had　searched　the　very　soul　in　me　with　her　eyes　during　that　instantshe　led　me　in；　and　dropped　the　shadowing　hood　of　her　gray；　draping　cloak；　which　had　previously　hid　part　of　the　character　of　her　countenance。　The　cottage　was　rude　and　bare　enough。　　But　before　the　picture　of　the　Virgin；　of　which　I　have　made　mention；　there　stood　a　little　cup　filled　with　fresh　primroses。　　While　she　paid　her　reverence　to　the　Madonna；　I　understood　why　she　had　been　out　seeking　through　the　clumps　of　green　in　the　sheltered　copse。　　Then　she　turned　round；　and　bade　me　be　seated。　　The　expression　of　her　face；　which　all　this　time　I　was　studying；　was　not　bad；　as　the　stories　of　my　last　night's　landlord　had　led　me　to　expect；　it　was　a　wild；　stern；　fierce；　indomitable　countenance；　seamed　and　scarred　by　agonies　of　solitary　weeping；　but　it　was　neither　cunning　nor　malignant。
  〃My　name　is　Bridget　Fitzgerald；〃　said　she；　by　way　of　opening　our　conversation。
  〃And　your　husband　was　Hugh　Fitzgerald；　of　Knock　Mahon；　near　Kildoon；　in　Ireland？〃
  A　faint　light　came　into　the　dark　gloom　of　her　eyes。
  〃He　was。〃
  〃May　I　ask　if　you　had　any　children　by　him？〃
  The　light　in　her　eyes　grew　quick　and　red。　　She　tried　to　speak；　I　could　see；　but　something　rose　in　her　throat；　and　choked　her；　and　until　she　could　speak　calmly；　she　would　fain　not　speak　at　all　before　a　stranger。　　In　a　minute　or　so　she　said〃I　had　a　daughterone　Mary　Fitzgerald；〃then　her　strong　nature　mastered　her　strong　will；　and　she　cried　out；　with　a　trembling　wailing　cry：　　〃Oh；　man！　what　of　her？…　…what　of　her？〃
  She　rose　from　her　seat；　and　came　and　clutched　at　my　arm；　and　looked　in　my　eyes。　　There　she　read；　as　I　suppose；　my　utter　ignorance　of　what　had　become　of　her　child；　for　she　went　blindly　back　to　her　chair；　and　sat　rocking　herself　and　softly　moaning；　as　if　I　were　not　there；　I　not　daring　to　speak　to　the　lone　and　awful　woman。　　After　a　little　pause；　she　knelt　down　before　the　picture　of　Our　Lady　of　the　Holy　Heart；　and　spoke　to　her　by　all　the　fanciful　and　poetic　names　of　the　Litany。
  〃O　Rose　of　Sharon！　　O　Tower　of　David！　　O　Star　of　the　Sea！　have　ye　no　comfort　for　my　sore　heart？　　Am　I　for　ever　to　hope？　　Grant　me　at　least　despair！〃and　so　on　she　went；　heedless　of　my　presence。　　Her　prayers　grew　wilder　and　wilder；　till　they　seemed　to　me　to　touch　on　the　borders　of　madness　and　blasphemy。　　Almost　involuntarily；　I　spoke　as　if　to　stop　her。
  〃Have　you　any　reason　to　think　that　your　daughter　is　dead？
  She　rose　from　her　knees；　and　came　and　stood　before　me。
  〃Mary　Fitzgerald　is　dead；〃　said　she。　　〃I　shall　never　see　her　again　in　the　flesh。　　No　tongue　ever　told　me；　but　I　know　she　is　dead。　　I　have　yearned　so　to　see　her；　and　my　heart's　will　is　fearful　and　strong：　　it　would　have　drawn　her　to　me　before　now；　if　she　had　been　a　wanderer　on　the　other　side　of　the　world。　　I　wonder　often　it　has　not　drawn　her　out　of　the　grave　to　come　and　stand　before　me；　and　hear　me　tell　her　how　I　loved　her。　　For；　sir；　we　parted　unfriends。〃
  I　knew　nothing　but　the　dry　particulars　needed　for　my　lawyer's　quest；　but　I　could　not　help　feeling　for　the　desolate　woman；　and　she　must　have　read　the　unusual　sympathy　with　her　wistful　eyes。
  〃Yes；　sir；　we　did。　　She　never　knew　how　I　loved　her；　and　we　parted　unfriends；　and　I　fear　me　that　I　wished　her　voyage　might　not　turn　out　well；　only　meaning；O；　blessed　Virgin！　you　know　I　only　meant　that　she　should　come　home　to　her　mother's　arms　as　to　the　happiest　place　on　earth；　but　my　wishes　are　terribletheir　power　goes　beyond　my　thoughtand　there　is　no　hope　for　me；　if　my　words　brought　Mary　harm。〃
  〃But；〃　I　said；　〃you　do　not　know　that　she　is　dead。　　Even　now；　you　hoped　she　might　be　alive。　　Listen　to　me；〃　and　I　told　her　the　tale　I　have　already　told　you；　giving　it　all　in　the　driest　manner；　for　I　wanted　to　recall　the　clear　sense　that　I　felt　almost　sure　she　had　possessed　in　her　younger　days；　and　by　keeping　up　her　attention　to　details；　restrain　the　vague　wildness　of　her　grief。
  She　listened　with　deep　attention；　putting　from　time　to　time　such　questions　as　convinced　me　I　had　to　do　with　no　common　intelligence；　however　dimmed　and　shorn　by　solitude　and　mysterious　sorrow。　　Then　she　took　up　her　tale；　and　in　few　brief　words；　told　me　of　her　wanderings　abroad　in　vain　search　after　her　daughter；　sometimes　in　the　wake　of　armies；　sometimes　in　camp；　sometimes　in　city。　　The　lady；　whose　waiting…woman　Mary　had　gone　to　be；　had　died　soon　after　the　date　of　her　last　letter　home；　her　husband；　the　foreign　officer；　had　been　serving　in　Hungary；　whither　Bridget　had　followed　him；　but　too　late　to　find　him。　　Vague　rumours　reached　her　that　Mary　had　made　a　great　marriage：　　and　this　sting　of　doubt　was　added；whether　the　mother　might　not　be　close　to　her　child　under　her　new　name；　and　even　hearing　of　her　every　day；　and　yet　never　recognizing　the　lost　one　under　the　appellation　she　then　bore。　　At　length　the　thought　took　possession　of　her；　that　it　was　possible　that　all　this　time　Mary　might　be　at　home　at　Coldholme；　in　the　Trough　of　Bolland；　in　Lancashire；　in　England；　and　home　came　Bridget；　in　that　vain　hope；　to　her　desolate　hearth；　and　empty　cottage。　　Here　she　had　thought　it　safest　to　remain；　if　Mary　was　in　life；　it　was　here　she　would　seek　for　her　mother。
  I　noted　down　one　or　two　particulars　out　of　Bridget's　narrative　that　I　thought　might　be　of　use　to　me：　　for　I　was　stimulated　to　further　search　in　a　strange　and　extraordinary　manner。　　It　seemed　as　if　it　were　impressed　upon　me；　that　I　must　take　up　the　quest　where　Bridget　had　laid　it　down；　and　this　for　no　reason　that　had　previously　influenced　me　（such　as　my　uncle's　anxiety　on　the　subject；　my　own　reputation　as　a　lawyer；　and　so　on）；　but　from　some　strange　power　which　had　taken　possession　of　my　will　only　that　very　morning；　and　which　forced　it　in　the　direction　it　chose。
  〃I　will　go；〃　said　I。　　〃I　will　spare　nothing　in　the　search。　　Trust　to　me。　　I　will　learn　all　that　can　be　learnt。　　You　shall　know　all　that　money；　or　pains；　or　wit　can　discover。　　It　is　true　she　may　be　long　dead：　　but　she　may　have　left　a　child。〃
  〃A　child！〃　she　cried；　as　if　for　the　first　time　this　idea　had　struck　her　mind。　　〃Hear　him；　Blessed　Virgin！　he　says　she　may　have　left　a　child。　　And　you　have　never　told　me；　though　I　have　prayed　so　for　a　sign；　waking　or　sleeping！〃
  〃Nay；〃　said　I；　〃I　know　nothing　but　what　you　tell　me。　　You　say　you　heard　of　her　marriage。〃
  But　she　caught　nothing　of　what　I　said。　　She　was　praying　to　the　Virgin　in　a　kind　of　ecstasy；　which　seemed　to　render　her　unconscious　of　my　very　presence。
  From　Coldholme　I　went　to　Sir　Philip　Tempest's。　　The　wife　of　the　foreign　officer　had　been　a　cousin　of　his　father's；　and　from　him　I　thought　I　might　gain　some　particulars　as　to　the　existence　of　the　Count　de　la　Tour　d'Auvergne；　and　where　I　could　find　him；　for　I　knew　questions　de　vive　voix　aid　the　flagging　recollection；　and　I　was　determined　to　lose　no　chance　for　want　of　trouble。　　But　Sir　Philip　had　gone　abroad；　and　it　would　be　some　time　before　I　could　receive　an　answer。　　So　I　followed　my　uncle's　advice；　to　whom　I　had　mentioned　how　wearied　I　felt；　both　in　body　and　mind；　by　my　will…o'…the…wisp　search。　He　immediately　told　me　to　go　to　Harrogate；　there　to　await　Sir　Philip's　reply。　　I　should　be　near　to　one　of　the　places　connected　with　my　search；　Coldholme；　not　far　from　Sir　Philip　Tempest；　in　case　he　returned；　and　I　wished　to　ask　him　any　further　questions；　and；　in　conclusion；　my　uncle　bade　me　try　to　forget　all　about　my　business　for　a　time。
  This　was　far　easier　said　than　done。　　I　have　seen　a　child　on　a　common　blown　along　by　a　high　wind；　without　power　of　standing　still　and　resisting　the　tempestuous　force。　　I　was　somewhat　in　the　same　predicament　as　regarded　my　mental　state。　　Something　resistless　seemed　to　urge　my　thoughts　on；　through　every　possible　course　by　which　there　was　a　chance　of　attaining　to　my　object。　　I　did　not　see　the　sweeping　moors　when　I　walked　out：　　when　I　held　a　book　in　my　hand；　and　read　the　words；　their　sense　did　not　penetrate　to　my　brain。　　If　I　slept；　I　went　on　with　the　same　ideas；　always　flowing　in　the　same　direction。　　This　could　not　last　long　without　having　a　bad　effect　on　the　body。　　I　had　an　illness；　which；　although　I　was　racked　with　pain；　was　a　positive　relief　to　me；　as　it　compelled　me　to　live　in　the　present　suffering；　and　not　in　the　visionary　researches　I　had　been　continually　making　before。　　My　kind　uncle　came　to　nurse　me；　and　after　the　immediate　danger　was　over；　my　life　seemed　to　slip　away　in　delicious　languor　for　two　or　three　months。　　I　did　not　askso　much　did　I　dread　falling　into　the　old　channel　of　thoughtwhether　any　reply　had　been　received　to　my　letter　to　Sir　Philip。　　I　turned　my　whole　imagination　right　away　from　all　that　subject。　　My　uncle　remained　with　me　until　nigh　midsummer；　and　then　returned　to　his　business　in　London；　leaving　me　perfectly　well；　although　not　completely　strong。　　I　was　to　follow　him　in　a　fortnight；　when；　as　he　said；　〃we　would　look　over　letters；　and　talk　about　several　things。〃　　I　knew　what　this　little　speech　alluded　to；　and　shrank　from　the　train　of　thought　it　suggested；　which　was　so　intimately　connected　with　my　first　feelings　of　illness。　　However；　I　had　a　fortnight　more　to　roam　on　those　invigorating　Yorkshire　moors。
  In　those　days；　there　was　one　large；　rambling　inn；　at　Harrogate；　close　to　the　Medicinal　Spring；　but　it　was　already　becomi