than ever, all in white, waiting for him, with sweet concern in her
peerless face. Half-past ten struck. He struggled, he writhed, he made
the very room shake, and lacerated his flesh, but that was all. No
answer, no help, no hope.

By-and-by his good wit told him his only chance was calmness; they could
not long confine him as a madman, being sane. But all his efforts to
convince his keepers that he was sane were useless; his letters seemed
to go, but he got no answers; his appeals to visiting justices were in
vain. The responsibility rested with the people who signed the
certificates, and he could not even find out who they were. After months
of softening hearts and buying consciences, he was on the point of
escape, when he was moved to another asylum. Here there was no
brutality, but constant watchfulness; and he had almost prevailed on the
doctor to declare him cured when he was again moved to a still more
brutal place, if possible, than the first.

One day he found himself locked in his room. This was unusual, for
though they called him a lunatic in words, they called him sane by all
their acts. He thought the commissioners must be in the house; had he
known who really was in the house he would have beaten himself to pieces
against the door.

At dinner there was a new patient, very mild and silent, with a
beautiful mild brown eye like some gentle animal's. Alfred contrived to
say some kind word to him; and the newcomer handled his forelock, and
announced himself as William Thompson, adding, with simple pride, "Able
seaman, just come aboard, your honour."

At night Alfred dreamed he heard Julia's sweet, mellow voice speaking to