dead; and Bridget's heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of her child. She could not write, and fine Squire had managed her communication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest there - one whom she had known at Antwerp - to write for her. But no answer came. It was like crying into the awful stainless of night.
One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed to mark her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with any of them; but the sight of her had become a part of their daily lives, and slow wonder arose in their minds, as morning after morning came, and her house-door remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or light of fire within. At length, some one tried the door; it was locked. Two or three laid their heads together, before daring to look in through the blank unshuttered window. But, at last, they summoned tip courage, and then saw that Bridget's absence from their little world was not th
