it's come into the ladies' hands."

He was much excited with this long speech; but it cannot be said that any
one paid much attention to him. Mrs. Bowyer was holding Mary in her arms,
uttering little cries and sobs over her, and looking anxiously at her
husband. The vicar sat down suddenly in his chair, with the air of a man
who has judgment to deliver without the least idea what to say; while
Mary, freeing herself unconsciously from her friend's restraining
embrace, stood facing them all with a sort of trembling defiance; and
Mrs. Turner kept on explaining nervously that,--"no, no, her Connie was
not excitable, was not oversensitive, had never known what a delusion
was."

"This is very strange," the vicar said.

"Oh, Mr. Bowyer," cried Mary, "tell me what I am to do!--think if she
cannot rest, if she is not happy, she that was so good to everybody, that
never could bear to see any one in trouble. Oh, tell me, tell me what I
am to do! It is you that have disturbed her with all you have been
saying. Oh, what can I do, what can I do to give her rest?"

"My dear Mary! my dear Mary!" they all cried, in different tones of
consternation; and for a few minutes no one could speak. Mrs. Bowyer, as
was natural, said something, being unable to endure the silence; but
neither she nor any of the others knew what it was she said. When it was
evident that the vicar must speak, all were silent, waiting for him; and
though it now became imperative that something in the shape of a judgment
must be delivered, yet he was as far as ever from knowing what to say.

"Mary," he said, with a little tremulousness of voice, "it is quite