which had passed before her eyes. Presently her fingers came in contact
with the clots of gore that were thickening on her garment, and she
arose quickly, and, with a shudder, tottered against the wall. Her eyes
fell upon Moll's white face, the brow mangled and bruised, and the
dishevelled hair soaking in the crimson tide that kept faintly oozing
from the cut. She was alone in the house with that terrible object; for
Philip, careless of her convenience, had only procured the services of a
girl from a neighboring farm-house, who attended to the household duties
during the day, and went home in the evening. But her womanly compassion
was stronger than her sense of horror, and kneeling by the side of the
prostrate woman, with inexpressible relief she perceived, by the slight
pulsation of the heart, that life was there. Entering her chamber, she
hastily put on a morning wrapper, and returning with towel and water,
raised Moll's head upon her lap, and washed the thick blood from her
face. The cooling moisture revived the wounded woman; her bosom swelled
with a deep sigh, and she opened her eyes and looked languidly around.

"How do you feel now, madam?" asked Miranda, gently.

"Who are you?" said Moll, in reply, after a moment's pause.

"Miranda--Miranda Searle, the wife of Philip," she added, trembling at
the remembrance of the woman's treatment at her husband's hands.

Molly raised herself with an effort, and sat upon the floor, looking at
Miranda, while she laughed with a loud and hollow sound.

"Philip's wife, eh? And you love him, don't you? Well, dreams can't last
forever."