“Major,” I whispers, looking in at the parlours, “I beg and pray of you don’t go out.”

The Major whispers, “Madam, trust me I will do no such a thing.  How is she?”

I says “Major the good Lord above us only knows what burns and rages in her poor mind.  I left her sitting at her window.  I am going to sit at mine.”

It came on afternoon and it came on evening.  Norfolk is a delightful street to lodge in—­provided you don’t go lower down—­but of a summer evening when the dust and waste paper lie in it and stray children play in it and a kind of a gritty calm and bake settles on it and a peal of church-bells is practising in the neighbourhood it is a trifle dull, and never have I seen it since at such a time and never shall I see it evermore at such a time without seeing the dull June evening when that forlorn young creature sat at her open corner window on the second and me at my open corner window (the other corner) on the third.  Something merciful, something wiser and better far than my own self, had moved me while it was yet light to sit in my bonnet and shawl, and as the shadows fell and the tide rose I could sometimes—­when I put out my head and looked at her window below—­see that she leaned out a little looking down the street.  It was just settling dark when I saw her in the street.

So fearful of losing sight of her that it almost stops my breath while I tell it, I went down-stairs faster than I ever moved in all my life and only tapped with my hand at the Major’s door in passing it and slipping out.  She was gone already.  I made the same speed down the street and when I came to the corner of Howard Street I saw that she had turned it and was there plain before me going towards the west.  O with what a thankful heart I saw her going along!

She was quite unacquainted with London and had very seldom been out for more than an airing in our own street where she knew two or three little children belonging to neighbours and had sometimes stood among them at the street looking at the water.  She must be going at hazard I knew, still she kept the by-streets quite correctly as long as they would serve her, and then turned up into the Strand.  But at every corner I could see her head turned one way, and that way was always the river way.

It may have been only the darkness and quiet of the Adelphi that caused her to strike into it but she struck into it much as readily as if she had set out to go there, which perhaps was the case.  She went straight down to the Terrace and along it and looked over the iron rail, and I often woke afterwards in my own bed with the horror of seeing her do it.  The desertion of the wharf below and the flowing of the high water there seemed to settle her purpose.  She looked about as if to make out the way down, and she struck out the right way or the wrong way—­I don’t know which, for I don’t know the place before or since—­and I followed her the way she went.