“You are thinking,” suddenly said Maud, “so am I, so am I,—do you recollect the burning of the smithy? Ha, ha! That was brave work.” “What smithy?” said Ada. “And do you know,” continued Maud, unheedful of the question, “do you know, the crackling roaring flames would not touch the body? No, no, the smith tried that, but the flames would not touch it! Like long fiery tongues they licked round and round it; but, ha, ha! It could not burn, it would not burn. No, no, it would not burn!” There was a wild insane exultation about the poor creature as she uttered these words that almost alarmed Ada. “The man you call the smith,” she said, “was he you met one night on Westminster-bridge? I heard you address him by that title.” “On a bridge?” “Yes, you must recollect, he would fain have taken your life.” “That was a dream,” said Maud, shaking her head; “a long wild dream.” “The sun is in the west,” said Ada, mournfully; “before it sinks I pray you to go, I have no power now.” “They called me a witch, and hunted me,” suddenly said Maud, shivering and drawing her tattered garments closely around her; “’tis very hard, for I am only poor Mad Maud; I follow Britton the smith, and he cannot kill me, because the Almighty has doomed that he shall die first—did you ever see that child again?” “What child?” said Ada, earnestly. “Of what do you speak?” “Ha! Ha!—’Twas brave work! Brave work!“ muttered Maud. “Was not that an awful death, eh? It came from the Smithy, but they could not burn the body! No, no,—God! How the man screamed—he was torn and bleeding—his shrieks were music to me—music! Music! To me, because I knew he was a murderer! And Andrew Britton was plunged deeper, deeper in crime! So I follow him—I must see the smith die—that is my task for life!” “Poor creature!” sighed Ada. “Who’s that,” cried Maud, “who pities me?” “I do, from the bottom of my heart,” said Ada. “Oh! Tell me, if you can, what has driven you to this state—this fearful state? Had you a house, kindred, were kind looks ever bent upon you; did the sweet echo of soft words ever ring in your years? Tell me all.” Maud convulsively clutched the arms of the chair upon which she sat, and she trembled violently as Ada spoke—once, twice, thrice, she tried to speak, then with a violent effort she gasped the words,— “House—kindred—love—oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven, spare me—spare me!” She then burst into such a violent and frantic fit of weeping, that Ada became much alarmed, and entreated her to be composed, in the most moving and tender accents. Gradually the deep anguish of Maud subsided, and when she again looked on the face of Ada, the wild glowing expression of her eyes had given place to a mild lustre, and she said in a low soft voice, exceedingly different from that in which she usually spoke,— “Where am I?” “Alas!” said Ada, “I can scarcely tell you; but till sunset you are welcome to what shelter and food I can give you.”