“Hanged!” screamed Mrs Forster.

“Yes, hanged—­’hanged by the neck until you are dead! and the Lord have mercy upon your soul! ’that will be your sentence,” replied the young lady, sobbing;—­“such an awful, such a disgraceful death for a woman too!”

“O Lord, O Lord!” cried Mrs Forster, who was now really frightened.  “What will become of me?”

“You will go to another and a better world, as my papa says in his sermons; I believe that the pain is not very great—­but the disgrace—­”

Mrs Forster burst into tears.  “Save me! save me, Miss Dragwell!—­Oh!  Oh! that stupid Nicholas, Oh!  Oh!”

“My dear Mrs Forster, we have all agreed at the parsonage that there is but one method.”

“Name it, my dear Miss Dragwell, name it!” cried Mrs Forster, imploringly.

“You must pretend to be mad, and then there will be a verdict of insanity; but you must carry it through everything, or it will be thought you are shamming.  Mr Ramsden is acquainted with Dr B—­, who has charge of the asylum at D—.  It is only nine miles off:  he will take you there, and when the coroner’s inquest is over you can return.  It will be supposed then to have been only temporary derangement.  Do you like the proposal?”

“Why, I have been mad for a long time,” replied Mrs Forster; “the conduct of my husband and my son has been too much for my nerves; but I don’t like the idea of actually going to a madhouse.  Could not—­”

“O dear, marm!” cried Betsy, running into the room, “there’s a whole posse of people about the house; they want to take you to the town jail, for murdering Mr Spinney.  What shall I say to them?  I’m feared they’ll break in.”

“Go and tell them that Mrs Forster is too ill to be taken out of bed, and that she is out of her senses—­d’ye hear, Betsy, tell them all she is stark staring mad!”

“Yes, I will, marm,” replied Betsy, wiping her eyes as she left the room.

Miss Dragwell walked to the window.  Although the report spread by Betsy had collected a crowd opposite the house, still there was no attempt at violence.

“I’m afraid that it’s too late,” said the young lady, turning from the window.  “What a crowd! and how angry they seem to be! you must be hanged now!”

“O no!  I’ll be mad—­I’ll be anything, my dear Miss Dragwell.”

“Well, then, we must be quick—­don’t put your gown on—­petticoats are better—­I’ll dress you up.”  Miss Dragwell rummaged the drawers, and collecting a variety of feathers and coloured ribbons, pinned them over the bandages which encircled Mrs Forster’s head; then pulling out a long-tailed black coat of her husband’s which had been condemned, forced her arms through it, and buttoned it in front.  “That will do for the present,” cried Miss Dragwell; “now here’s the cat, take it in your arms, go to the window, and nurse it like a baby.  I’ll throw it open—­you come forward and make them a curtsey; that will spread the report through the town that you are mad, and the rest will then be easy.”