“Where is the second Mrs. Bernard’s picture?” she asked, and Arthur answered, “It was never taken, but Phillis declares you are like her, and this accounts for Nina’s pertinacity in calling you Miggie.”

The pictures were by this time duly examined, and then Nina, still playing the part of hostess, showed to Edith every thing of the least interest until she came to the door, leading into the large square closet.

“Open it, please,” she whispered to Arthur.  “Let Miggie see where Nina stays when she tears.”

Arthur unlocked the door, and Edith stepped with a shudder into the solitary cell which had witnessed more than one wild revel, and echoed to more than one delirious shriek.

“Is it necessary?” she asked, and Arthur replied:  “We think so; otherwise she would demolish every thing within her reach, and throw herself from the window it may be.”

“That’s so,” said Nina, nodding approvingly.  “When I’m bad, I have to tear.  It cures my head, and I’m so strong then, that it takes Phillis and Arthur both to put that gown on me.  I can’t tear that,” and she pointed to a loose sacque-like garment, made of the heaviest possible material, and hanging upon a nail near the door of the cell.

“Have you been shut up since you came here?” Edith inquired, and Nina rejoined.  “Once; didn’t you hear me scream?” Phillis tried to make me quit, but I told her I wouldn’t unless they’d let you come.  I saw you on the walk, you know.  I’m better with you, Miggie; a heap better since you made me cry.  It took a world of hardness and pain away, and my head has not ached a single time since then.  I’m most well; ain’t I, Arthur.”

“Miss Hastings certainly has a wonderful influence over you,” returned Arthur, and as the evening wore away, Edith began to think so, too.

Even the servants commented upon the change in Nina, who appeared so natural and lady-like, that once there darted across Arthur’s mind the question, “what if her reason should be restored!  I will do right, Heaven helping me,” he moaned mentally, for well he knew that Nina sane would require of him far different treatment from what Nina crazy did.  It was late that night when they parted, he to his lonely room where for hours he paced the floor with feverish disquiet, while Edith went from choice with Nina to the den, determined to share her single bed, and smiling at her own foolishness when once a shadow of fear crept into her heart.  How could she be afraid of the gentle creature, who, in her snowy night dress, with her golden hair falling about her face and neck, looked like some beautiful angel flitting about the room, pretending to arrange this and that, casting half bashful glances at Edith, who was longer in disrobing and at last, as if summoning all her courage for the act, stepping behind the thin lace window curtains, which she drew around her, saying softly, “don’t look at me, Miggie, will you, ’cause I’m going to pray.”