"No," replied a gentleman; "we have not reached Crewe yet. They are
stopping for water, I should imagine. This is supposed to be one of the
most out-of-the-way villages in England. It is called Redcliffe."

She gave one look through the open windows. There, behind the woods, a
little village lay stretched and half hidden by the thick green foliage.

"I want to get out here," she said, in the same faint voice.

Her fellow-travelers looked at each other, and their glances said
plainly, "There is something strange about her; let her go." A gentleman
called the guard, and the woman, whose face was so carefully veiled, put
something in his hand that shone like gold.

"Let me get out here," she said, and without a word he unlocked the
door, and she left the carriage. Those who remained behind breathed more
freely after she had gone. That strange, mute presence had had a
depressing effect on them all.

She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but made her way
quickly to the green fields, where the golden silence of summer reigned.
She walked there with hasty steps, looking behind her to see if she were
pursued.

She opened the white gates and went into a field where the tall trees
threw a deep shade. She sat down then, or, rather, flung herself on the
ground with a vehement cry, like one who had suffered from a deadly pain
without daring to murmur--one loud cry, and, from the sound of it, it
was easy to tell that it came from a broken heart. She bowed her head
against the rugged bark of a tree, and then fell into a deep slumber.