Mrs. Brown, on looking at her, whispered, in choking accents, “Oh! my God, the child’s reason is overturned; what is there now in those once glorious eyes but vacancy?  Oh, that I had never lived to see this awful day!  Helen, the treasure, the delight of all who ever knew you, what is wrong?  Oh, speak to us—­recognize us—­your own two best friends—­Helen—­Helen! speak to us.”

She looked upon them certainly; but it was with a dead and vacant stare which wrung their hearts.

“Come,” said she, “tell me where is William Reilly?  Oh, bring me to William Reilly; they have taken me from him, and I. know not where to find him.”

The two kind-hearted ladies looked at one another, each stupefied by the mystery of what they witnessed.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Hastings, “her father must be instantly sent for Mrs. Brown, go to the lobby—­there is an officer there—­desire him to go to Mr. Folliard and say that—­but we had better not alarm him too much,” she added, “say that Miss Folliard wishes to see him immediately.”

The judge, we may observe here, had not yet pronounced sentence upon Reilly.  The old man, who, under all possible circumstances, was so affectionately devoted and attentive to his daughter, immediately proceeded to the room, in a state of great triumph and exultation exclaiming, “Guilty, guilty; we have noosed him at last.”  He even snapped his fingers, and danced about for a time, until rebuked by Mrs. Hastings.

“Unhappy and miserable old man,” she exclaimed, with tears, “what have you done?  Look at the condition of your only child, whom you have murdered.  She is now a maniac.”

[Illustration:  PAGE 176—­What, what is this?  What do you mean?]

“What,” he exclaimed, rushing to her, “what, what is this?  What do you mean?  Helen, my darling, my child—­my delight—­what is wrong with you?  Recollect yourself, my dearest treasure.  Do you not know me, your own father?  Oh, Helen, Helen! for the love of God speak to me.  Say you know me—­call me father—­rouse yourself—­recollect me—­don’t you know who I am?”

There, however, was the frightfully vacant glance, but no reply.

“Oh,” said she, in a low, calm voice, “where is William Reilly?  They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him; bring me to William Reilly.”

“Don’t you know me, Helen? don’t you know your loving father?  Oh, speak to me, child of my heart! speak but one word as a proof that you know me.”

She looked on him, but that look filled his heart with unutterable anguish; he clasped her to that heart, he kissed her lips, he strove to soothe and console her—­but in vain.  There was the vacant but unsettled eye, from which the bright expression of reason was gone; but no recognition—­no spark of reflection or conscious thought—­nothing but the melancholy inquiry from those beautiful lips of—­“Where’s William Reilly?  They have taken me from him—­and will not allow me to see him.  Oh, bring me to William Reilly!”