These, and many more sad and horrible things, were seen and heard during their visit; but Mr. Wharton’s first object was to find her for whose sake he had undertaken this long journey.  He knew her immediately, though her face was worn with trouble and sickness, and there was an intense and unnatural brightness about her eye.  Her beautiful hair was unbound, and falling about her shoulders, as she sat in the farthest corner of her cage, perfectly quiet, and entirely unoccupied.

“Rhoda!” said Mr. Wharton, gently.  She started, and put back her thick hair from her ear, at the sound of his familiar voice.

“Rhoda!” said he, “don’t you remember me?”

She looked at him intently, and the expression of her eye began to change.

“The children want to see you so much, Rhoda!  Emily and Effie, and Agnes and little Grace.”  He mentioned each name slowly and distinctly, and then spoke of his wife and the other children, and mentioned scenes and incidents connected with his home.  Her eye still looked with an earnest gaze into his; her brow contracted, as if she was trying to recall some long forgotten thing; until at length, with the helplessness of an infant, she stretched her arms towards Mr. Wharton, and exclaimed, piteously: 

“Oh, take me away!—­take me to my home!”

“You shall go with me, Rhoda; I will not leave you here,” said Mr. Wharton; and beckoning to Dr. Masten, he left the room.  As he reached the door, he heard a cry of agony, and turning, he saw Miss Edwards at the front of her cage, with both arms extended towards him through the bars, and the most agonized, imploring expression upon her face.  Stepping back to her, he said: 

“Rhoda, I will not leave you.  Be quiet, and I will come back very soon to take you with me.  Did I ever deceive you, Rhoda?”

“Oh!” said she, putting her hand to her head, “they have all deceived me.  Richard deceived me! He deceived me!—­oh, so cruelly!  Who can I trust?  They all desert me.  I am all, all alone!” And she sat down; and dropping her head upon her knees, she wept very bitterly.

When Mr. Wharton had again called the doctor from the room, he said to him: 

“Doctor, this does not seem to me such a hopeless case.  How any sane person could retain his senses in that awful scene, I cannot imagine; I am sure I should soon go crazy myself.  But could I once remove Miss Edwards from these terrible associations, and place her in one of our Eastern asylums, where she might have cheerful companionships, and pleasant occupation for her mind and fingers, I doubt not she might be completely restored.”

The doctor thought it possible, but was not so sanguine on the subject as Mr. Wharton, who, he said, had only seen the young lady in one of her calmer moods.  Still he by all means advised the trial.  “We have no hope of cure” said he, “in placing these lunatics in the County House; the only object is to keep them from injuring themselves or others.  They are all of them from the families of the poor, who cannot afford to send them to an Eastern asylum.  This young lady was a stranger, and without means, and so violent, at times, that restraint was absolutely necessary; so that the only thing we could do with her was to place her here till I could write to you.”