“Give!” said Maud; “God’s mercy has granted me just now, for the second time, the calmness and rationality of my happier days—this will pass away soon, and I shall become what I know I am—mad again!” “Nay,” said Ada, “hope that Heaven is not so stinting of its mercy.” Maud shook her head and sighed deeply. “You wish me to go at sunset?” “For your own safety.” “Well, be it so; I was guided hither for I know not what—I believe only because I am poor and wretched, and my wits wander sometimes.” “Can there be any so wretched?” “Ay,” said Maud, “many, many—be poor, houseless, and mad, from deep grief and injury, and there is scarcely a human hand but what will not be raised against you.” “Horrible!” exclaimed Ada. “’Tis very wicked.” “’Tis very true,” said Maud. “But hear me—my tale is very short—my brain again will throb and beat—my blood will boil, and strange shapes will again goad me to madness.” She compressed her head tightly for several seconds, and rocked to and fro as if in pain—then suddenly she laid her long skinny hand on Ada’s arm, and said— “Listen—you shall hear what drove me to this—haply it may save you from the like.” CHAPTER XXX. The Tale.—A Blighted Heart’s Despair. Poor Maud spoke in a low earnest voice, and Ada became deeply interested in her story, as with many tears she poured it into the ears of the lovely and persecuted girl. “You are young and very beautiful,” she commenced. “I was young, and they told me I was beautiful. Look at me now, and smile at the idle boast. Still there was one who loved me—one who listened to my voice, as though it had a magic in it—one who followed me where I led. My heart was touched by the purity of his devotion, and I loved him even as he loved me, next thing to Heaven. It might be that we each made too much of our earthly idols, and so turned the face of Heaven against us both; but I scarce can think so, for He who made His creatures with fond and faithful hearts, must surely look with pleasure rather than anger upon their deep and holy affections. Well, girl, the future lay before us like a summer’s day—all sunshine, joy, and delight. We asked each other what could mar our happiness; and in the ecstasy of our own dear truthfulness we answered, ‘Nothing.’ “Where our mutual parents lived, there came one day a man of coarse and ruffianly aspect. He said he came to settle in the place, and seek a helpmate among the village maidens. None welcomed him, for his manner was harsh and brutal—an index of the mind. This man’s name was Andrew Britton.” “Indeed!” said Ada. “Yes, Andrew Britton, a smith. With unparalleled insolence he said he had fixed on me for his wife. I scorned his suit. He jested at my indignant refusal. I wept, for we were alone. He laughed at my tears. Then I threatened him with the resentment of him to whom I had already plighted my young heart, and Andrew Britton swore then a fearful oath that I never should be his.