of the boat-house, and then she watched and listened for a little while.  When she turned round to speak again, instead of coming back, she stopped where she was, looking in at me, with a hand on each side of the entrance.  ‘Did you see me at the lake last night?’ she said.  ’Did you hear me following you in the wood?  I have been waiting for days together to speak to you alone—­I have left the only friend I have in the world, anxious and frightened about me—­ I have risked being shut up again in the mad-house—­and all for your sake, Miss Fairlie, all for your sake.’  Her words alarmed me, Marian, and yet there was something in the way she spoke that made me pity her with all my heart.  I am sure my pity must have been sincere, for it made me bold enough to ask the poor creature to come in, and sit down in the boat-house, by my side.”

“Did she do so?”

“No.  She shook her head, and told me she must stop where she was, to watch and listen, and see that no third person surprised us.  And from first to last, there she waited at the entrance, with a hand on each side of it, sometimes bending in suddenly to speak to me, sometimes drawing back suddenly to look about her.  ’I was here yesterday,’ she said, ’before it came dark, and I heard you, and the lady with you, talking together.  I heard you tell her about your husband.  I heard you say you had no influence to make him believe you, and no influence to keep him silent.  Ah!  I knew what those words meant—­my conscience told me while I was listening.  Why did I ever let you marry him!  Oh, my fear—­my mad, miserable, wicked fear!—­’She covered up her face in her poor worn shawl, and moaned and murmured to herself behind it.  I began to be afraid she might break out into some terrible despair which neither she nor I could master.  ‘Try to quiet yourself,’ I said; ‘try to tell me how you might have prevented my marriage.’  She took the shawl from her face, and looked at me vacantly.  ’I ought to have had heart enough to stop at Limmeridge,’ she answered.  ’I ought never to have let the news of his coming there frighten me away.  I ought to have warned you and saved you before it was too late.  Why did I only have courage enough to write you that letter?  Why did I only do harm, when I wanted and meant to do good?  Oh, my fear—­my mad, miserable, wicked fear!  ’She repeated those words again, and hid her face again in the end of her poor worn shawl.  It was dreadful to see her, and dreadful to hear her.”

“Surely, Laura, you asked what the fear was which she dwelt on so earnestly?”

“Yes, I asked that.”

“And what did she say?”