“Months and months ago,” was the reply. “How far I walked that night, all through the darkness, I should be afraid to say; for how many days and nights I wandered purposelessly on, I could not tell you: my mind took no account of time or distance. It was in the autumn, and the weather lovely. I kept to the field-paths and the lonely lanes; I avoided high roads, and railway stations, and towns. I had no object in view except to get a long distance away from him; and where I should ultimately have walked to, I cannot imagine, had my strength been equal to my will; but it was not. I dropped down one morning on a piece of green sward under the shelter of some elm-trees, (the place reminded me of Berrie Down Lane,) and I thought I was dying. I saw a house in the distance, and strove to crawl on towards it, but failed in the attempt. I do not remember anything after that, until I found myself lying in a strange bed in a strange room, with my baby beside me. “English Samaritans dwelt in the house I had seen amongst the trees, and some of them finding me lying dead, as they thought, by the wayside, carried me in. I was ill for months, and during the whole of that time they never asked me who I was, or whence I came. Voluntarily, however, I told them my story, and then they would have had me stay with them always, and teach their children, and give such poor service as I could in exchange for board and lodging. “I agreed to do so; but, before I settled down, I felt I must see you once more, and hear how Lally was. So I made my way to the Hollow, where learning from Ned that she was not expected to live, I travelled straight on to London,—and you know the rest. I will go back to my friends very shortly now. I have written to tell them the reason why I could not return before.” “But why not stay in London, Bessie?” inquired Mrs. Dudley. “Because I am poor,” was the reply, “and I must now work for myself and my child; because I shall be safe there from any fear of meeting him,—because I have nothing to keep me in London, excepting you; and you, Heather—will let me write to you occasionally, will you not?” “That was not the way in which you intended to finish your sentence,” remarked Heather, with a smile. “No,” Bessie answered, frankly, “it was not.” “You were going to say you could not come to see me quite safely, because you thought I knew something of the person who has brought you to this, my child.” “Don’t, Heather—don’t!” Bessie pleaded. “I am to ask no questions, then? I am not to inquire his name; but there is one thing I may do, love, and that is tell you what his cousin would not, that if it be the individual I suspect, he is one of the most miserable men on earth.” “And do you think he really loved me?” “How should I be able to tell that?” Heather answered; “and you must talk of love no more in connection with him, Bessie; for love becomes sin, when it is impossible for it to produce other fruits than shame and sorrow.”