on the fatal night on which Lancelot had last
seen her. Shuddering, she hinted at the horrible filth and misery
she had seen, at the foul scents which had sickened her. A madness
of remorse, she said, had seized her. She had gone, in spite of her
disgust, to several houses which she found open. There were worse
cottages there than even her father's; some tradesmen in a
neighbouring town had been allowed to run up a set of rack rent
hovels.--Another shudder seized her when she spoke of them; and from
that point in her story all was fitful, broken, like the images of a
hideous dream. 'Every instant those foul memories were defiling her
nostrils. A horrible loathing had taken possession of her,
recurring from time to time, till it ended in delirium and fever. A
scent-fiend was haunting her night and day,' she said. 'And now the
curse of the Lavingtons had truly come upon her. To perish by the
people whom they made. Their neglect, cupidity, oppression, are
avenged on me! Why not? Have I not wantoned in down and perfumes,
while they, by whose labour my luxuries were bought, were pining
among scents and sounds,--one day of which would have driven me mad!
And then they wonder why men turn Chartists! There are those
horrible scents again! Save me from them! Lancelot--darling! Take
me to the fresh air! I choke! I am festering away! The Nun-pool!
Take all the water, every drop, and wash Ashy clean again! Make a
great fountain in it--beautiful marble--to bubble and gurgle, and
trickle and foam, for ever and ever, and wash away the sins of the
Lavingtons, that the little rosy children may play round it, and the
poor toil-bent woman may wash--and wash--and drink--Water! water! I
am dying of thirst!'

He gave her water, and then she lay back and babbled about the Nun-
pool sweeping 'all the houses of Ashy into one beautiful palace,
among great flower-gardens, where the school children will sit and
sing such merry hymns, and never struggle with great pails of water
up the hill of Ashy any more.'

'You will do it! darling! Strong, wise, noble-hearted that you are!
Why do you look at me? You will be rich some day. You will own
land, for you are worthy to own it. Oh that I could give you
Whitford! No! It was mine too long--therefore I die! because I--
Lord Jesus! have I not repented of my sin?'

Then she grew calm once more. A soft smile crept over her face, as
it grew