"Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. I chose you for your strength, your cunning, your intelligence, your great beauty. " As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes. And Mother trusted him. But I don’t suppose you can understand. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous.
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