rpion Remorse is by far the most appalling. But other
events had to take place before she reached the state when the
scorpion stings to death all other passions, even Pride and even
Vanity, and reigns in the bosom supreme. We could hardly meet without
softening towards each other. She was most anxious to know what had
occurred to me since I left Raxton to search for Winnie. I gave her
the entire story from my first seeing Winnie in the cottage, to my
_rencontre_ with her at Knockers' Llyn. At this time she had
accidentally been brought into contact with Miss Dalrymple, who had
lately received a legacy and was now in better circumstances. Miss
Dalrymple had spoken in high terms of Winnie's intelligence and
culture, little thinking how she was making my mother feel more
acutely than ever her own wrongdoing. Knowing that I was very fond of
music, my mother persuaded me to take her on several occasions to the
opera and the theatre. She with more difficulty persuaded me to
consult a medical man upon the subject of my insomnia; and at last I
agreed, though very reluctantly, to consult Dr. Mivart, late of
Raxton, who was now living in London. Mivart attributed my ailment
(as I, of course, knew he would) to hypochondria, and I saw that he
was fully aware of the cause. I therefore opened my mind to him upon
the subject. I told him everything in connection with Winifred in
Wales.

He pondered the subject carefully and then said:

'What you need is to escape from these terrible oscillations between
hope and despair. Therefore I think it best to tell you frankly that
Miss Wynne is certainly dead. Even suppose that she did not fall down
a precipice in Wales, she is, I repeat, certainly dead. So severe a
form of hysteria as hers must have worn her out by this time. It is
difficult for me to think that any nervous system could withstand a
strain so severe and so prolonged.'

I felt the terrible truth of his words, but I made no answer.

'But let this be your consolation,' said he. 'Her death is a blessing
to herself, and the knowledge that she is dead will be a blessing to
you.'

'A blessing to me?' I said.

'I mean that it will save you from the mischief of these alternations
between hope and despair. You will remember that it was I who saw her
in her first seizure and told you of it. Such a seizure having lasted
so long, nothing could have given her relief but death or magnetic
transmission of the seizure. It is a grievous c