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"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. While he was considering what would be best to do, the poor maniac, over whose bewildered brain another change had come, raised her head from under the straw, and peeping round the room, asked in a low voice, "If they were gone?" "Who?" inquired Jack. " "So he is," returned Jack; "but there's no saying how long he may remain so.

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