And it was for this that Alice had supported her strength--her courage-during the sharp pangs of childbirth; during a severe and crushing illness, which for months after her confinement had stretched her upon a peasant’s bed (the object of the rude but kindly charity of an Irish shealing)--for this, day after day, she had whispered to herself, “I shall get well, and I will beg my way to the cottage, and find him there still, and put my little one into his arms, and all will be bright again;”--for this, as soon as she could walk without aid, had she set out on foot from the distant land; for this, almost with a dog’s instinct (for she knew not what way to turn--what county the cottage was placed in; she only knew the name of the neighbouring town; and that, populous as it was, sounded strange to the ears of those she asked; and she had often and often been directed wrong),--for this, I say, almost with a dog’s faithful instinct, had she, in cold and heat, in hunger and in thirst, tracked to her old master’s home her desolate and lonely way! And thrice had she over-fatigued herself--and thrice again been indebted to humble pity for a bed whereon to lay a feverish and broken frame. And once, too, her baby--her darling, her life of life, had been ill--had been near unto death, and she could not stir till the infant (it was a girl) was well again, and could smile in her face and crow. And thus many, many months had elapsed, since the day she set out on her pilgrimage, to that on which she found its goal. But never, save when the child was ill, had she desponded or abated heart and hope. She should see him again, and he would kiss her child. And now--no--I cannot paint the might of that stunning blow! She knew not, she dreamed not, of the kind precautions Maltravers had taken; and he had not sufficiently calculated on her thorough ignorance of the world. How could she divine that the magistrate, not a mile distant from her, could have told her all she sought to know? Could she but have met the gardener--or the old woman-servant--all would have been well! These last, indeed, she had the forethought to ask for. But the woman was dead, and the gardener had taken a strange service in some distant county. And so died her last gleam of hope. If one person who remembered the search of Maltravers had but met and recognised her! But she had been seen by so few--and now the bright, fresh girl was so sadly altered! Her race was not yet run, and many a sharp wind upon the mournful seas had the bark to brave before its haven was found at last. CHAPTER IV. “Patience and sorrow strove Which should express her goodliest.”--SHAKESPEARE. “Je _la_ plains, je _la_ blame, et je suis son appui.” *-VOLTAIRE. * I pity her, I blame her, and am her support.