“Do not belong to Biberry. In that you are quite right, sir. I had never seen Biberry three months since; but, as for New York, I have not passed a month there, in my whole life. The longest visit I ever paid you, was one of ten days, when I landed, coming from Havre, about eighteen months since.” “From Havre! Surely, you are an American, Miss Monson—our own countrywoman?” “Your own countrywoman, Mr. Wilmeter, by birth, descent, and feelings. But an American female may visit Europe.” “Certainly; and be educated there, as I had already suspected was your case.” “In part it was, and in part if was not.” Here Mary paused, looked a little arch, seemed to hesitate, and to have some doubts whether she ought to proceed, or not; but finally added—“You have been abroad, yourself?” “I have. I was nearly three years in Europe; and have not been home yet, quite a twelvemonth.” “You went into the east, I believe, after passing a few months in the Pyrenees?” continued the prisoner, carelessly. “You are quite right; we travelled as far as Jerusalem. The journey has got to be so common, that it is no longer dangerous. Even ladies make it, now, without any apprehension.” “I am aware of that, having made it myself——” “You, Miss Monson! You been at Jerusalem!” “Why not, Mr. Wilmeter? You say, yourself, that females constantly make the journey; why not I, as well as another?” “I scarce know, myself; but it is so strange—all about you is so very extraordinary——” “You think it extraordinary that one of my sex, who has been partly educated in Europe, and who has travelled in the Holy Land, should be shut up in this gaol in Biberry—is it not so?” “That is one view of the matter, I will confess; but it was scarcely less strange, that such a person should be dwelling in a garret-room of a cottage, like that of these unfortunate Goodwins.” “That touches on my secret, sir; and no more need be said. You may judge how important I consider that secret, when I know its preservation subjects me to the most cruel distrust; and that, too, in the minds of those with whom I would so gladly stand fair. Your excellent uncle, for instance, and—yourself.” “I should be much flattered, could I think the last—I who have scarcely the claim of an acquaintance.” “You forget the situation in which your respectable and most worthy uncle has left you here, Mr. Wilmeter; which, of itself, gives you higher claims to my thanks and confidence than any that mere acquaintance could bestow. Besides, we are not”—another arch, but scarcely perceptible, smile again illuminated that remarkable countenance—“the absolute strangers to each other, that you seem to think us.” “Not strangers? You amaze me! If I have ever had the honour——” “Honour!” interrupted Mary, a little bitterly. “It is truly a great honour to know one in my situation!”