“Talk of something else,” she said, whispering through her teeth.  “I shall lose myself if you talk of that.”

Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had filled her mind hardly a minute since seemed to be swept from it now.  It was evident that the impression left by Mrs. Fairlie’s kindness was not, as I had supposed, the only strong impression on her memory.  With the grateful remembrance of her school-days at Limmeridge, there existed the vindictive remembrance of the wrong inflicted on her by her confinement in the Asylum.  Who had done that wrong?  Could it really be her mother?

It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that final point, but I forced myself to abandon all idea of continuing it.  Seeing her as I saw her now, it would have been cruel to think of anything but the necessity and the humanity of restoring her composure.

“I will talk of nothing to distress you,” I said soothingly.

“You want something,” she answered sharply and suspiciously.  “Don’t look at me like that.  Speak to me—­tell me what you want.”

“I only want you to quiet yourself, and when you are calmer, to think over what I have said.”

“Said?” She paused—­twisted the cloth in her hands, back-wards and forwards, and whispered to herself, “What is it he said?” She turned again towards me, and shook her head impatiently.  “Why don’t you help me?” she asked, with angry suddenness.

“Yes, yes,” I said, “I will help you, and you will soon remember.  I ask you to see Miss Fairlie to-morrow and to tell her the truth about the letter.”

“Ah!  Miss Fairlie—­Fairlie—­Fairlie——­”

The mere utterance of the loved familiar name seemed to quiet her.  Her face softened and grew like itself again.

“You need have no fear of Miss Fairlie,” I continued, “and no fear of getting into trouble through the letter.  She knows so much about it already, that you will have no difficulty in telling her all.  There can be little necessity for concealment where there is hardly anything left to conceal.  You mention no names in the letter; but Miss Fairlie knows that the person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde——­”

The instant I pronounced that name she started to her feet, and a scream burst from her that rang through the churchyard, and made my heart leap in me with the terror of it.  The dark deformity of the expression which had just left her face lowered on it once more, with doubled and trebled intensity.  The shriek at the name, the reiterated look of hatred and fear that instantly followed, told all.  Not even a last doubt now remained.  Her mother was guiltless of imprisoning her in the Asylum.  A man had shut her up—­and that man was Sir Percival Glyde.

The scream had reached other ears than mine.  On one side I heard the door of the sexton’s cottage open; on the other I heard the voice of her companion, the woman in the shawl, the woman whom she had spoken of as Mrs. Clements.