his station and fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know,
far superior to anything she had a right to expect. Then came a long
silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget's
heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of
her child. She could not write, and the Squire had managed her
communication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a
good priest there--one whom she had known at Antwerp--to write for
her. But no answer came. It was like crying into the' awful
stillness of night.

One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been
accustomed to mark her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been
sociable with any of them; but the sight of her had become a part of
their daily lives, and slow wonder arose in their minds, as morning
after morning came, and her house-door remained closed, her window
dead from any glitter, or light of fire within. At length, some one
tried the door; it was locked. Two or three laid their heads
together, before daring to look in through the blank unshuttered
window. But, at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that
Bridget's absence from their little world was not the result of
accident or death, but of premeditation. Such small articles of
furniture as could be secured from the effects of time and damp by
being packed up, were stowed away in boxes. The picture of the
Madonna was taken down, and gone. In a word, Bridget had stolen away
from her home, and left no trace whither she was departed. I knew
afterwards, that she and her little dog had wandered off on the long
search for her lost daughter. She was too illiterate to have faith
in letters, even had she had the means of writing and sending many.
But she had faith in her own strong love, and believed that her
passionate instinct would guide her to her child. Besides, foreign