red Maria, with an accent of
disappointment.

"No, not that I perceive," replied Jemima; "but he has an untamed look, a
vehemence of eye, that excites apprehension. Were his hands free, he
looks as if he could soon manage both his guards: yet he appears
tranquil."

"If he be so strong, he must be young," observed Maria.

"Three or four and thirty, I suppose; but there is no judging of a person
in his situation."

"Are you sure that he is mad?" interrupted Maria with eagerness. Jemima
quitted the room, without replying.

"No, no, he certainly is not!" exclaimed Maria, answering herself; "the
man who could write those observations was not disordered in his
intellects."

She sat musing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it seemed
to glide under the clouds. Then, preparing for bed, she thought, "Of what
use could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is unjustly
confined?--Could he aid me to escape, who is himself more closely
watched?--Still I should like to see him." She went to bed, dreamed of
her child, yet woke exactly at half after five o'clock, and starting up,
only wrapped a gown around her, and ran to the window. The morning was
chill, it was the latter end of September; yet she did not retire to warm
herself and think in bed, till the sound of the servants, moving about
the house, convinced her that the unknown would not walk in the garden
that morning. She was ashamed at feeling disappointed; and began to
reflect, as an excuse to herself, on the little objects which attract
attention when there is nothing to divert the mind; and how difficult it
was for women to avoid growing romantic, who have no active duties or
pursuits.

At breakfast, Jemima enquired whether she understood French? for, unless
she did, the stranger's stock of books was exhausted. Maria replied in
the affirmative; but forbore to ask any more questions respecting the
person to whom they belonged. And Jemima gave her a new subject for
contemplation, by describing the person of a lovely maniac, just brought
into an adjoining chamber. She was singing the pathetic ballad of old Rob
with the most heart-melting falls and pauses. Jemima had
half-opened the door, when she distinguished her voice, and Maria stood
close to it, scarcely daring to respire, lest a modulation should escape
her, so exquisitely sweet, so passionately wild. She began with sympathy
to pourtray to herself another victim, when the lo