"Heed them not who dare say so, Julia. We are together, and my love shall be your shield from the world's remarks--but it will soon distinguish your innocence--it will not lay the burthen on the innocent long. You will be justified in your action, my own dear friend!" "I hope so--I hope so! I fled from my own heart, too, Penelope; I might have fallen like others, but I fled from my own heart, and from persecution. Oh! don't let any one come near me but yourself, Penelope. That young lady is very kind. I told Neville to follow me no more. Do not persecute me, Neville--let me alone to grieve silently. I am unhappy, but I am yet a guiltless wife. I will go to Penelope...." Lady Ennismore's spirit wandered: fever was upon her cheek, and she ceased to remember her own friend. "I will go to Penelope--she always loved me, and she will save her poor friend. I wish I could get to Lidham! A chaise, Conynham--a chaise to the lake-house! If I could only get in--but my foot will not move. Lift me in, Conynham, if you would save me from the Countess!" A slight shriek broke from Julia's lips, as if in her vision she had encountered her mother-in-law. Mrs. Spottiswoode sent instantly for advice, and she summoned her husband, to consult with him upon the extraordinary arrival of Lady Ennismore. While the short interview took place in her dressing-room, Christobelle sat by the bed-side of the invalid, who had relapsed into total forgetfulness of her situation; and she could gather from her wanderings the nature of her sufferings, and the reason of her flight from Bedinfield. It broke Christobelle's heart, to hear her mournful voice in its ravings. "Let me attend my lord, I beseech you. If he is ill, who dare close the doors of his apartments upon his wife? It is my duty to wait upon my lord--no, I will not be left whole hours and days with Neville. I know his kindness and his love for me. Where is my father? Will any one seek my father?--no, Neville, never--I am a wife--a guiltless wife--do not persecute me. I will go to Penelope, for she never ceased to love me--they are dead, I think--all that belong to me are dead!" Low moanings succeeded, till again Julia burst forth in complaint, as her ideas dwelt upon the painful scenes of Bedinfield. All her anxiety manifested itself in reproaches to Colonel Neville, and in fancied inability to enter her lord's chamber. Not one self-reproach mingled among her moving cries--all was purity of thought, as Mrs. Spottiswoode had unceasingly believed and maintained, in her remarks upon Julia's conduct.