“The woman’s as mad as a March hare,” murmured Laura.
“My sweetheart drew me towards him, and again took my hand and made me kneel with him. Then I knew that he was going to marry me, and I almost swooned with astonishment and joy.
“The young clergyman read the service in a low and solemn voice. I could hardly speak the answers, my lips were trembling so. A ring was placed upon my finger—a hand pressed mine, and something like a soft flower fell upon my forehead—it was my husband’s fond kiss.”
“Undoubtedly mad, but I must humour her,” thought Miss Stanbridge.
“Ah, how happy were we the first few months! We seldom saw each other, but that only made us love each other more.
“We used to meet on this very spot, and often on that soft bank he would crown me with a garland of fair wood flowers, and kiss me, and enfold me in his arms, and tell me again and again that he loved me as his life.
“And then,” she said, plaintively, “he deserted me, and died at sea.”
“Ah, it’s a sorrowful tale—very sorrowful,” said Miss Stanbridge, still, however, thinking that the narrator was most decidedly off her head.
“I had a child,” said the woman, continuing her singular narrative. “The neighbours scoffed at me, and called me a wanton and my child base-born. I did not tell them; so I kept my secret as my husband had ordered me.”
“Oh! he wished you to do so, then?”