I half smiled. "Have no fear," I said. It seemed too absurd to
imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy.

"Her father loved her well," said she, gravely, "yet he drove her out
like some monstrous thing."

Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden.
It was Lucy's voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one
side of the open casement--and as though she were suddenly stirred to
merriment--merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or
sayings of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound
jarred on me inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our
conversation, and must have been at least aware of the state of
agitation her friend was in; she herself usually so gentle and quiet.
I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive curiosity
as to what had provoked this burst of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs.
Clarke threw her whole weight and power upon the hand with which she
pressed and kept me down.

"For God's sake!" she said, white and trembling all over, "sit still;
be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us,
for we are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us."

Again that laugh--so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart.
She held me tight--tighter; without positive violence I could not
have risen. I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a
shadow pass between the sun's warmth and me, and a strange shudder
ran through my frame. In a minute or two she released me.

"Go," repeated she. "Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think