"How dare you ask me that question? Are not you afraid to? Don't you know it stirs up all my worst passions within me, and sends me mad, --mad do I say? No, no, I am not mad now; I was once, but that, like the rest, is past--past for ever!" and her voice changed suddenly from its fierceness to an almost mournful sadness. "Did you know her well?" Amy ventured to ask, notwithstanding the rebuff her last question had met with. "Aye, did I; too well--too well! Would to God I had never seen her, it would have been better had I died first: but I live, if such a life as mine can be called living. And _she_ is dead and I haven't forgiven her; never will; unless," said she, correcting herself, "unless--oh God! I dare not think of _that_; does it not bring sorrow--deep, intense, despairing sorrow, sorrow that scorches my brain?" and either exhausted with her fierce excitement, or overwhelmed with the recollection of the cause of her grief, she sank down in a chair, and covering her face with her hands, moaned and rocked herself about afresh. For the moment Amy felt half inclined to leave her--her strange words and wild manner had so unnerved her--but a glance at the sorrow-stricken face, as it was suddenly lifted away from the hands that had screened it, decided her upon remaining for at least a few minutes longer. Perhaps the compassionate feeling at her heart had something to do with the decision, or it might be she hoped to say a few words of comfort to the sorrowing creature so relentless in her bitter feelings towards one who had evidently been remorseless in her revenge, and unforgiving even in her death; one who had injured her, if not irreparably, at least deeply and lastingly. As Amy stood deliberating how best to shape her words so as not to irritate her afresh, Goody Grey spoke, and her voice was no longer fierce or passionate, but mournfully sad. "I am lonely," she said, "very lonely. There are days when the thoughts of my heart drive me wild, and are more than I can bear; there are days when I feel as if death would be welcome, were it not for one hope, one craving wish. Will this hope, this wish, ever be realised? Shall I ever be any other than a broken-hearted, despairing woman?" "The clouds may clear--sunshine may burst forth when least expected." "May! That's what I repeat to myself day and night--day and night. The two words, '_Hope on_,' are ever beating to and fro in my brain, like the tickings of that clock, and sometimes I persuade myself that the time-piece says, '_Hope on, hope on_.' But only the years roll on--the hope is never realised; and soon my heart will whisper, and the clock will tick, '_no hope, no hope_.'" "Do you never earnestly pray that God will lighten the heavy load that weighs on your spirits or that He will bring comfort to your sorrowing heart?"