moment at the leaden face of the speaker.

"There is wrong and mystery about this," he thought--"a dark mystery of
guilt. This woman is mad, but her wrongs have driven her mad, and you,
Sir Jasper Kingsland, are her wronger."

"It shall be as you say, Sir Jasper," he said, aloud; "that is, if I
find this poor creature has no friends. Are you aware whether she has
any?"

"I tell you I know nothing of her!" the baronet cried, with fierce
impatience. "What should I know of such a wretch as that?"

"More than you dare tell, Sir Jasper Kingsland!" cried a high, ringing
voice, as a young woman rushed impetuously into the church and up the
aisle. "Coward and liar! False, perjured wretch! You are too
white-livered a hound even to tell the truth! What should you know of
such a wretch as that, forsooth! Double-dyed traitor and dastard!
Look me in the face and tell me you don't know her!"

Every one shrunk in terror and dismay; Sir Jasper stood as a man might
stand suddenly struck by lightning. And if looks were lightning, the
blazing eyes of the young woman might have blasted him where he stood.
A tall and handsome young woman, with black eyes of fire, streaming,
raven hair, and a brown gypsy face.

"Who are you, in mercy's name?" cried the Reverend Cyrus Green.

"I am the daughter of this wretch, as your baronet yonder is pleased to
call my mad mother. Yes, Mr. Green, she is my mother. If you want to