even at that distance; and anon she would recover herself with a noble exaltation, lifting her head with a fearless mien.  And so presently her body drooping gradually to a reflective posture, she falls dreaming again, to rouse herself suddenly at some new prompting of her spirit, and give us all her thoughts, all eagerness for two moments, all melting sweetness the next, with her pretty manner of clinging to her father’s arm, and laying her cheek against his shoulder.  And when at last we came to say good-night, she hangs about his neck as if she would fain sleep there, quitting him with a deep sigh and a passionate kiss.  Also she kissed me most affectionately, but could say never a word of farewell to either of us—­hurrying to her chamber to weep, as I think.

We knew not what to conclude from these symptoms, save that she might be sickening of some disorder; so we to our beds, very down in the mouth and faint at heart.

About six the next morning I was awoke by the door bursting suddenly open, and starting up in my bed, I see Dawson at my side, shaking in every limb, and his eyes wide with terror.

“Moll’s gone!” cries he, and falls a-blubbering.

“Gone!” says I, springing out of bed. “’Tis not possible.”

“She has not lain in her bed; and one saw her go forth last night as the doors were closing, knowing her for a foreigner by her hood.  Come with me,” adds he, laying his hand on a chair for support.  “I dare not go alone.”

“Aye, I’ll go with ye, Jack; but whither?”

“Down to the sea,” says he, hoarsely.

I stopped in the midst of dressing, overcome by this fearful hint; for, knowing Moll’s strong nature, the thought had never occurred to me that she might do away with herself.  Yet now reflecting on her strange manner of late, especially her parting with us overnight, it seemed not so impossible neither.  For here, seeing the folly of our coming hither, desponding of any happiness in the future, was the speediest way of ending a life that was burdensome to herself and a constant sorrow to us.  Nay, with her notions of poetic justice drawn from plays, she may have regarded this as the only atonement she could make her husband; the only means of giving him back freedom to make a happier choice in marriage.  With these conclusions taking shape, I shuffled on my clothes, and then, with shaking fear, we two, hanging to each other’s arms for strength, made our way through the crooked streets to the sea; and there, seeing a group of men and women gathered at the water’s edge some little distance from us, we dared not go further, conceiving ’twas a dead body they were regarding.  But ’twas only a company of fishers examining their haul of fishes, as we presently perceived.  So, somewhat cheered, we cast our eyes to the right and left, and, seeing nothing to justify our fears, advanced along the mole to the very end, where it juts out into the sea, with great stones around to