of the idle summer journey. He had gone in search of the picturesque and
the peculiar; he had found them--and he wished he had not.




V

CINDERELLA'S SLIPPER


On the comb of the hill where his adventure had begun and culminated--it
seemed to him now like historic ground--Edward Lynde reined in Mary, to
take a parting look at the village nestled in the plain below. Already
the afternoon light was withdrawing from the glossy chestnuts and
drooping elms, and the twilight--it crept into the valley earlier than
elsewhere--was weaving its half invisible webs under the eaves and about
the gables of the houses. But the two red towers of the asylum reached
up into the mellow radiance of the waning sun, and stood forth boldly.
They were the last objects his gaze rested upon, and to them alone his
eyes sent a farewell.

"Poor little thing! poor little Queen of Sheba!" he said softly. Then
the ridge rose between him and the village, and shut him out forever.

Nearly a mile beyond the spot where Mary had escaped from him that
morning, Edward Lynde drew up the mare so sharply that she sunk back on
her haunches. He dismounted in haste, and stooping down, with the rein
thrown over one arm, picked up an object lying in the middle of the road
under the horse's very hoofs.