pausing in the shadow of the western end of the great quadrangle wall,
with her face turned towards the gate. As above her there is the purity
of the moonlit sky, and below her there are the defilements of the
pavement, so may she, haply, be divided in her mind between two vistas of
reflection or experience. As her footprints crossing and recrossing one
another have made a labyrinth in the mire, so may her track in life have
involved itself in an intricate and unravellable tangle.

The postern-gate of the Hospital for Foundling Children opens, and a
young woman comes out. The lady stands aside, observes closely, sees
that the gate is quietly closed again from within, and follows the young
woman.

Two or three streets have been traversed in silence before she, following
close behind the object of her attention, stretches out her hand and
touches her. Then the young woman stops and looks round, startled.

"You touched me last night, and, when I turned my head, you would not
speak. Why do you follow me like a silent ghost?"

"It was not," returned the lady, in a low voice, "that I would not speak,
but that I could not when I tried."

"What do you want of me? I have never done you any harm?"

"Never."

"Do I know you?"

"No."