A NARROW ESCAPE.

Otago Witness, Issue 652, 28 May 1864, Page 6

A NARROW ESCAPE.

[From Once a Week.]

1 should never have thought of my amiable iixend, Mrs Denison, as the heroine of such a tale acs she related to me one evening in the autumnal «wilight. Yet she, a timid, sentimental old lady, .lad really hecn placed in a position of extraordinary trial, and had come nobly out, of it. And •a&jsiold the adventure with an utter unconsciousste» s of anything heroic in her conduct which added st strange charm to her recital. When I was about seventeen or eighteen, (she said,) my fa ther took me for change of air, after •*«Hjht illness, to the sea-side. I was romantic ; aaareorer, J had been motherless from my infancy, •and my dreamy fancies had received no check tfiraci the dull routine of my school life, nor from s»y association with girls as silly as myself. 13 barfly after our arrival at the watering place, i was struck by the appearance of three people, - -who were often to be seen together of an evening sm. tSe sands. One was a very hand ome woman #£ about forty-five; the others appeared to be her am. and daughter. The soq was one of the most Interesting persons I ever saw. The daughter, tksm> was about my own age, was very pretty. The - .Mother was a cripple. She was drawn nearly «mary day to the same spot on the sands, and sat T&kwe watching the setting sun, while her children *eeupied themselves with gathering shells. Occasionally we met the brother and sister riding, and say father declared that he had never seen so good * fcorsewoman as the young lady. Oae evening, as I was sitting on a low black • 3MC& or sto ,c, near her chair, the elder lady spoke - •*» jae with a civil apology for troubling a stranger- She asked me if I could distinguish whether lier .son and daughter were on the beach. Her j»gki was too bud for her to see herself. I looked, «wi replied in the negative. She seemed anxious aatrf uneasy, and kept turning her eyes in the afireetion from whence she appeared to expect z&em. I asked if she required anything. She me, but replied that she wanted nothing ; ."•sly she was anxious for her daughter's appear■aaee; she feared accidents when they were late . 45wm home. " I should think you could have no rau3e for few. ' I said, "your daughter rides so well." Him assented with a sigh. " I daresay," she added, " I im foolishly ner- • taus, but my life is a trying and monotonous one, -.aa/laiibrds time for idle fears." £ was sorry for her ; it was veiy sad to be help35e» and crippled at her aye, and with her appaweat health, so we gradually fell into conversation. Mrs i>eloraine-I remember what a charming Eume I thought it— was not very lady-like, still .*o was not vulgar. I could see she was not a JSugftly-bred person; nevertheless she was inafwwting and clever, and had a very fascinatinsr way of her own. Alter a time, the son and afcwghter returned ; they thanked me lor my kind •dtiteuti'.in to their mother, and were so pleasant saad agreeable that I was enchanted with them. When 1 returned home I teased ray father to call on the Deloraines. He demurred at first; ■me Itnew nothing of these people, he said ; it was _3Kjfcwi^eto pickup acquaintances as one would iJiMfls i but I was urgent, and he seldom refused ■a. request made by his motherless girl. He made afcwr inquiries; ascertained that Mrs Deloraine aoiher children lived a. quiet, secluded, blameless M&i, in a lonely cottage on the outskirts of the .■t»wn ; a place which the librariau told me had "Sraitne reputation of being haunted, and was let .a* a low rent ; that they paid their bills ; and were v apparently re-mectable, good people. Then he -uwnsented to call on them, We approached the Deloraines* dwellings 'vShmugh aki orchard and pine grove, so dismal .nud gloomy in its appearance that I did not wonkier at its übostly repute. The cottage itself was am. old house, built partly of wood, partly of brick. A very ill-looking man-servant opened the door, xoii. Jisliered us into the drawing-room, where we :JBwa& Mk Deloraine and her daughter. The former was lying on a sofa, placed against • SSts Ibiding-doors. She could not rise to receive ws, but she greeted my father and me very Twwtaly, and seemed delighted to make our ac • - .ffrawntance. He thought her manner theatrical aauLstuaiea^ but she managed, nevertheless, to iglease hin\.and the acquaintance thus commenced , /jpswressed uato intimacy. We rode frequently together, accompanied by wsyialherand William Deloraine. lam quite . 'sens fliat dear father never dreamed of anything ' Sfce love between William and me ; he still iBb©«ght me a mere child; he was too much oc- - <*Bpifid by his own affaire to observe my gradual ■a&BXnce towards womanhood. But I was gradually becoming attached to 3HsJliam Deloraine., He was just the sort of man )d»-please au imaginative youn< lady like myself. JJiereover, he constantly betrayed his love for . .-'ffl^ysfit, .and as constantly recalled the manifesta---.Soa {if! may say so), by a sudden and distant .'.aenMn££S«f manner, which piqued and teased me. 'But I am not telling a love tale, and therefore wSi not linger over those tantalising but bewitchag days. On one of them the desired declaration ■vi i: ; William Deloraine, in approved poetic . „ ja«ie, assured me that he adored me. I referred fjfat, of course, to my father. To my surprise he '. &t*mtAte&; told me that an unhappy mystery : -fltaisded his life;— a fatal secret which he could Ktmakjmjet reresl even tome; and he implored *4M* ftooonccal our attachment from my father. jjijr, though, I was very silly and romantic, and 'SSHDiam gained tn additional hold on my fancy, Ivy taring a mystery attached to him, I was too . k«aorable a girl to enter into an .engagement *•. mithjout my kindest father's sanction, and I said . <«««fconcft He was bitterly disappointed, for he \.h «ped I should have consented to an elopement, or ■ -eeret marriage; and I grew angry at the suppo\;3^eihad a qviarrel, t>ut made it up afterwards, fltfeoßxrse ; and I promised to keep tlie secret of S» avowal form my father, though I would pro-ausse-nothing more. He declared also that he ■JBaaeld keep his secret from his family; but I <£fie&ed that he had told Kate, as she looked vexed aaA disappointed when I next saw her. Never- - *Bse'ess, our rides went on as usual. One day when we were all out together, Kate ■and uapa behind. William and I in advance, my ftreer suddenly drew up his horse, sprang to the ' 3£n*wid, stooped, and then, holding up a pocket- • ftdrak, cried, " Look here, Miss Morton !" 1 did S»A iv considerable amazement, as I had disjUaG&y stsen him draw the pocket book from his "jtofmn, put it on the ground, and then take it up • - ac*iu. Mv father riding up, asked what was the -master. William exhibited the pocket-book, sayfy. shs lii« hid ju>t picked it up. My father advised Wu> i4i open it, and s?e if the name of the owner m ..= imiiJB. He complied, and they examined it , i&aij. t'j.-r. There was no uame. The book con-

tained a roll of bank-notes, and William, observing that they must advertise it, put it in his pocket. You will wonder that all this time I continued silent. But remember how young I was, and how shy. Besides, I had not the slightest idea what it could all mean , that there was a mystery — a secret — which Deloraine wished to veil under this apparent trouvaille, J believed, and since he had not intended to take roe into iiis confidence I fancied it would be dishonorable to betray him. For his part, he had not noticed my silence, but, icmouniing, be^an to chat gaily on indifferent subjects, and was even more than usually fascinating and attractive. A few days afterwards an advertisement appeared in the local papers stating that a gentleman had found a pocket-book on H — Hill, contain ing bank-notes, and that they would be restored to the owner on application, provided he could describe the contents of the book, and tell the numbers of the notes. This advertisement appeared daily during the remainder of our stay at the sea-side. My father remarked that Deloraine's honesty put him to a treat expense, and that it was singular no one elaisrwd the pocket-book ; thfu we took no further notice of the matter, though I secretly wondered wlnt it could mean. Once move bcfoie we left our sea-side home, Deloraine ur,;ed me'to become his wife secretly, lie was sure, lie said, that my father, would forgive me when once we were married • and I also should have been sure of that ; indeed, I believed he would not have refused hU assent at all, even though Deloraine was (as he avowed) poor ; for I was a rich Welsh heiress, as you know. However, my lorer was as stran 'ely timid as I was confident in my beloved father's g .odness ; and would have me keep his secret and wait. Thus we parted without any engagement having been made between us. I found my home in the Welsh valleys dismal enough when I returned to it. I mused the animation of the bathing place ; the society of bonny Kate ; the sentimental devotion of her brother. Without excitement, without employment, I grew weary of my dull existence, and called my ennui disappointed love. J . fter all, my dear, if the busy young ladies of this part of tbe century dou't do much real good to others, they do something for themselves in keeping their minds employed. It is astonishing how much foolish love imaginations are thus kept ia check. As for me, I gave way to the vainest regrets and the most profitless day dreaming. I cast from me God's great gift of time sinfully, recklessly— my sole occupation king that of writing long letters to Kato, which she rarely answered. But one cannot be idle and discontented with impunity. I was naturally delicate, and I began to pay for my vnin imaginings the tax of loss of health and good looks. My poor father was alarmed for me. He called in a physician, and as the doctor could not detect the real cause of my lassitude, he judiciously banished me, and sent me agsin to the sea-side. We lind only been absent from it five months. It was March (close to the assize time) when we again took possession of our former lodgings, but much had happened during th.it period to " startle " the place "from its propriety." My maid came to undress me the night of our arrival, quite eager to communicate her news. " Oh, ma'am," she crif d, " you remember the Miss Deloraine you used to ride with when we were last here, and her brother ?" "Of course," I replied, with a beating heart. "What of them?" "Well, ma'am, they, say Mr William ia taken up for forgery, and will be hanged." I nearly fainted ; but my pride upheld me in my servant's presence. '" What nonsense !" I said ; " how can you repeat such idle scandal 1" " Well, I don t believe it, of course; but the poor gentleman is in prison at A on the charge. They say that no end of forged notes have been passed here, and all have been traced back to Mr Deloraine, his servant, or the, ladies." I was horror-struck. I did not believe it ; still I doubted. I had not heard from Kate for a long time, and assuredly there must be some ground of suspicion to cause William's detention in prison, if he were really there. When I saw my father next morning, I told him Sarah's tale. He was greatly astonished, and declared he would ascertain its truth by riding over to A after breakfast. How lone, how miserable thp. hours were till he relumed. But he came with a bright face; his heart relieved from a loid of kind anxiety. " It is quite true that the poor lad is in prison," he said, in reply to my eager inquiries; "but by a mere accident. You remember his finding a pocket-book ? Well, he was so imprudent — being pressed for money, he says — as to use some of those notes, intending to keep the numbers, and return the amount he spent, if they were ever claimed; but they proved to be forged ; and he is taken up for passing them. He had actually directed his lawyer to appeal to us as witnesses of the manner in which he had obtained them, and the letter is gone to Bryn Gellert " My heart ceased beating for the moment as I remembered how I had seen Deloraine take the book from lite own bosom ; but I was quite silent. Between horror and fear I could not speak. Mt father continued : " I have promised, of courae, to appear for him; and probably you may be called on—" " Oh ! don't let them call me 1 I can't— l can't," said I, in an agony. "Well, of course, it « unpleasant for a young lady to appear in a court of justice, and if 1 catf prevent it you shall not; but we must not let proprieties peril a fellow-creature's" life." I made no reply. I would not for worlds have deprived Deloraine of my father's 'testimony in his favor. And how could he give it if I spoke? Forgery was then punished with death. Oould I voluntarily condemn, by my own words, the man whom I loved, to the gallows 1 I was wretched ; distracted by doubt, fear, and horror, when my heart was wrung by receiving a letter from William iforwarded by the' gaol chaplain), in which he thanked me for my kind remembrance of him, and said how it pleased him, amidst all his trouble, to think that it was my testimony that would acquit him, for I had seen him find the fatal pocket-book. Imagine, it you can, my distress. I dared not write ana tell him that I hnew he did not find it, lest my letter should be read before it was given to him. I could only be silent on the subject, nd urge my father to keep me from the public court, and prevent my being subpoenaed as a witness. Alas ! it was in vain ! She paused— moved by the old sad memory. " What did you do ? ' we asked. The trial came on (she continued) . It was distinctly proved that the Deloraine family and their servant had passed false notes, and that William had purchased a diamond ornament of a jeweller ia London, anil paid for it with a forged note. This tradesman was the chief witness '

against him. For his defence Deloraine declared, as he had told my iather, that he had found thnotes, and had merely borrowed their present use. My father was called to testify to the fact, and to state what he thought of Deloraine's character. The latter statement was of course favourable, but on cross-examination it was proved that my father had not actually seen William pick up the book, and to my horror and despair / was put into the witness-box. Icm never forget it ! At this Eiinute I can see Deloraine's eager look at me— his look of love, and trust, and hope. A word from me would give him life ! — a word consign him to the gallows ! It was an awful temptation. ... But I dared not fail in truth ; I could not— no, thank God ! I was not perjured. I tried to hold the truth back ; at least, I answered reluctantly ; but my cross-examination was severe, and when the counsel for the prosecution asked me — " Did you actually see William. Bromine find the book?" I almost shrieked my fatal "No!" " Did you see him take it from his own person ?" There was a p.niae. I gasped out — " I did !" And then 1 heard a wild, piercing cry from the prisoner. I remember no more, for I fainted, and was carried out ot court. Deloraine was condemned to death. He confessed his crime, my j father told me; and showed much earnestness in acquitting his mother and Kate of all share in it. They were consequently set at liberty, for they, also, had been under restraint. But I was miserable. I felt like a murderess, and besought niy father, as he ever hoped to see me happy again, to procure a commutation of the sentence. We had powerful friends ; and Mr. Morton used such exertions, that, difficult as the task was at that time, he achieved it, and the sentence of Deloraine wns changed into transportation for life. All this dreadful anxiety increased my previous indisposition, and it became impossible for me to return home, as my father wished, when the trial and his subsequent efforts were over. So we remained by the seaside. One day I received, to my astonishment, a letter from Kate Deloraine: it was full of gratitude for my father's goodness in saving her brother from the last rigor of the law; and of regrets over his blighted life and their own ruined prospects. She did not blame me for the part I had had in his conviction. She pitied mo for it, and said poor William admired my unshaken truthfulness. " And now, dear Jane," she concluded, " I am aoing to urge one last request. We are about to leave England for ever, to hide our shame and sorrow in a strange land. We go to-morrow. Will you come to the old cottage (to which -mamma and I have returned) and hid me a last farewell, and hear a message poor William left, which will explain and extenuate,, in a decree, his sad fault ?'' < This letter touched me deeply. I greatly desired to see Kate once more, to assure her how cruelly I had felt the dreadful duty enst on me, and to hear something more of William Deloraine. My father was from home ; he had gone to spend a tew days with a friend some ten or twelve miles off, and was not to return till the next day, or perhaps the following one. If he had been ot home, assuredly I should not have been permitted to go, but as it was, my girlish enthusiasm, my lingering pity and ter.derness for the convict William, induced me to comply. It was all very silly and romantic, I know ; but so it was. The cottage was within a walk, and not liking to expose the unhappy Deloraines to the curious gaze of servants, I determined to go alone, and for the same reason did not tell any of them whither I was going. It was a chilly, windy April afternoon, about four o'clock, when I started on my walk. I hurried along, and, in about an hour's time, found myself in the lane leading to the cottage. It was certainly a very lonely place, and how association added to its natural gloom. The grove had been much trodden and the trees broken in the search made by the Bow Street officers for graving-toola, &c. (which, however, they had failed to find), and altogether it looked very wretched and depressing. Just opposite the eastern gable of the dwelling, was an old oak of great size, which I was obliged to pass hi approaching the door. As I glanced at it, I perceived a hole or cavity recently dug or uncovered tfbr I had never noticed it before; close to the root. Why, I never knew, but the sight of it made me shiver, nnd altogether a strong feeling (perhaps induced by the dreariness of the place), made me turn back. Just as I did so, Kate Deloraine emerged from behind the tree and stood before me. She was sadly altered, very pale and thin, and she shed bitter tears as I embraced her. I walked into the house with her. The drawing-room was empty; the sofa moved; the folding-doors opened. "You miss my mother," she said: "she- is in her room, very ill ; but she trusts that you will go up and see her — " I assented, and then very timidly asked for William. She said he was about to sail for Botany Bay with the next party of convicts ; that he was patient and resigned, and bora his fate better than could hare been expected. " Poor fellow !" she added, with real feeling^ "he is very young, and was badly trained. I declare to you, Miss Morton, we never, either of us, knew what goodness was till we became acquainted with you," I looked,, doubtless, as I was, astonished. " No 1" our parents educated us without any principle," she continued, "and though poor William so generously acquitted bis family of all complicity in hfe guilt, they did not deserve it." At this minute the ill-looking manservant opened the door and said Mrs Delinaine would be glad to see me alone in the north parlour, an upper sitting-room in the gable end of the house. I did not know how to refuse, though Kate's revelation had made me feel very uncomfortable. So I followed the man up-staira into the parlour 'where she and I had been wont to sit and talk and wor-\ during our brief intimacy. There was no one there ; but James, muttering that Mrs Deloraine would come directly, placed a. chair for me and left the room, closing the door after him. I walked to the window, and looked out. The casement (it was nothing more) opened upon that part of the shrubbery in which the old oak. with its suspicious earth-hole, stood. As it caught my eye, the same misgiving I had felt just before, rushed on my mind. Was I looking at my own grave? .... Very uneasy, I walked at once to the door, determined to go away immediately, but on turning the handle, I found it was no longer possible for me to do so, — I was locked in ! Obeying a first impulse I shook the door violently, and called loudly to be let out. No voice answered me. I looked round the room; there was no o'her door, though, I remembered; and the window

was too high up for me to jump out on the top of ; the verandah j yet even that I might be obliged to dare. I was evidently at the mercy of these people, whose aim in Jurina; me thither, and making me a prisoner, must of course be to rob or murder me. With renewed fear I gazed out of the window on the gathering twilight. The wind moaned and sobbed round the old house, and shook the ill-fitting casement. I opened it and called for help as loudly as I could ; out the breeze blowing full in my face nearly stifled my voice, and, save the old trees which creaked and bowea their huge heads towards me, I <«aw no living tiling outside. Twilight deepened into night, and I sank on ' my knees and prayed fervently for help in my hour of sore peril. I rose, strengthened with a new hope and fresh courage. I felt that I had enl sted a Mighty defender on my side. At last, after a period of suspense which appeared yeara to me, I heard footsteps advancing to the door; the key turned in the lock, and Mrs Deloraine— no cripple, but an agile, powerful woman— entered, followed by James, bearing a light and an inkstand. " What is your meaning in thus making me a prisoner '.'" I asked firmly. " I should think your own consciende would tell you, traitress!" was the reply. "Betrayer of my darling boy! The death he so narrowly escaped would be too good for you." " But he owes that escape to me, Mrs Deloraine." " Yes ! he is to live that you may not suffer remorse. I understand it all. But what kind of life ? — that of a felon ! — my boy ! — my pride !" She clasped her hands passionately. The man whispered sulleuly in her ear. " You are right," she said sternly. " I feared poor Kate might need assistance, and put it in my popket V And I drew it out. " That is well !" she said, sternly. " Sit down and write a cheque for five hundred pounds." I complied readily. I had but fifty of my own allowance in my banker's hands ; for I had spent liberally of late, and had no present command of the large fortune I inherited. I felt convinced that her rapacity would defeat its object, for the banker would make inquiries before he cashed such a cheque. But the same thought had evidently occurred nlyo to the man. "It is too much !" he said, slowly, "fifty will be enough for our immediate wants. We dart not present a larger cheque." With a murmur, Mrs Deloraine put the first cheque in her pocket, and desired me to write another— perhaps she kept the five hundred for some future opportunity. " That will do," said the man, taking th« second: "now, come/—t o his mistress -"we have no time to lose. ' They turned to leave the room. "You will allow me to go home now?" I asked. "That is bo probable!" said the woman,sarcastical ly. " That you may betray us again." " But I will pledge you my honor not to send after you, or give any clue to what has passed." ■ '?+T butyouroay be put upon jour oath!" cried Mrs Deloraine^ mockingly. " That is impossible, unless I Rive information of my imprisonment j as for the money.it is a free gift— l intended to help you as I told you." She sneered again. "No doubt ! Nevertheless as you might repent of it, we will not try you. 'Now listen ! I hated you from the time yeu won my boy's heart from me, and marred his young life for ever ; and I swore, when I heard tbat you had betrayedhim, to avenge him. Ido so now • With .the money you have given us, Kate and I will follow him to his place of exile. We shall have a success there. I fancy ! For you,— you will remain in this room. Itisnotknowninthe town that we are here now; we were supposed to have left yesterday, therefore no tradespeople are likely to come near the house -in fact they have not troubled us wiflj calls lately,— and as there is no food in the Jarder, and you might be starved, we shall lay a train to the house and put" a slow match to it, in order that by the tune we are safe off, the flames may bring you deliverers, or put you out of your misery." And she laughed a horrible, mocking laugh. " You will not surely be so cruel." I qried in an agony of fear. ' r You are but frightening me." ' " You will see ! Good-bye, Miss Morton : thu§ I return our obligations to you." And forcibly releasing her arm from the clasp with which I sought to detain her, she left the room. I strove to get out of It at the same time ; but the man pushed me in again with an oath, and I heard them locs and bolt the door after them. Thus I was left to the anticipation of a lingering, horrible death. I opened the and calle i for help again and again in vain. No one could hear me save those monsters. At lnst, I sann on a seat, and grew calm from exhaustion. Very slowly the hoars passed. I sate n-atchhuf the wide space between the ill-fitting door and the floor, expecting every moment" to see the red, dull glare of fire through it } but the grey dawn stole into the room, and still I saw no mgw of tb* threatened conflagration. Ivw wihurmed: only exhausted by want of rest, want oj lboJ, and that most horrible expectation. The light grew, and there was no perceptible fire. I began to hope that the match had gone outj-thatlwassafe. Alas! I wa3 deceived. The house had ignited long ago, but the old damp wood smouldered slowly. By-and-by, when it was again near evening, I saw the red gleam I had so feared on the threshold, and I heard the rush and the hiss of the flames. A few moments, and the door would catch, and I must perish. Once more I rushed to the still qpen casement, aud looked out. Should I spring at the peril of my life to the verandah ? There was nothing else left for me, and I was preparing to take a leap that might have been fatal, when a voice called to me from below. * ', < " Stop, stop, Jane ! Wait, I will save you !" And I saw Kate Deloraine mounting a garden ladder placed against the verandah. "' ' I watched her breathlessly. J She ascended with ease, drew it up after her, and raised it to the window. I w«s out and on it, in a moment : I caa scarcely tell how the descent was achieved, but I stood in- safety at the bottom, clasping Kate's hand "We have not a moment to tose." she gasped. " I escaped them at our last stage, bat whenfthey find I am gone, they will guess why and where, and will follow me." At that moment we heard a sound of approachin? whe3b in the lane. I was so weak J could scarcely move; and she had to pull- and- lead me to a fly standing near, in which she placed me. I observed that there was a crowd of ptopfc

round the burning cottage, endeavoring to extinguish the flames — but we drove off apparently unnoticed. " I am bo sorry," says poor Kate, " that I ! should have been made the instrument of placing you in such peril, Miss Morton. When my mother told me I might write to bid you farewell, and nsk you here, ;f Iplensed, I had no notion she intended so awful a crime,— nor did I know that they had left you in the cottage when we left it. * But when they thought we were safe, my mother boasted of the revenge she had taken on you. Then I seized the first opportunity to escape from them, and returned in the same fly we are now in ; leaving it in the lane while f sought for you. I feared they would have pursued me, but I was mistaken. Probably they thought if I returned 1 to you it would be too late,— or James feared to venture back. The wheels we heard were those of the approaching fire engine." I shuddered— these people had been my friends '. I would never blame English caution and reserve in future. But by this time we reached my home. We found the servants in a great state of alarm at my disappearance j they had sent off for my father, though he was not yet arrived— and every search was making for me. I was so exhausted that Kate, who placed me with grt at tenderness on a sofa, had to feed me ; and to give me wiae slowly ; and before my father returned, I had sunk into a profound sleep fiom which I aid not awake for hours, When I did, I found him sitting beside me. He embraced me with joy and gratitude, and was eager to know where I had been, and what had befallen me— as all that the servants could tell him was, that Miss Deloraine had brought me back very fatal and HI. ' ' I related ray adventure, and he grew pale with horror and indignation sa he listened. He vowed lie would have the monsters traced, and as severely punished as their crimes deserved. " But where is poor Kate 1" I asked. " She was ■gone when I arrived," ho answered. "Sarah says she left directly you fell asleep, telling the servants not to awake you. as you had had great fatigue and excitement. She left this note for yon." And he gave me a little twisted paper written in pencil. "Adieu, Mfas Morton," she wrote, "forgive me. You will never see me again. Igo to the Continent to earn my living, us I wa9 wont to do before I knew you, by riding in a circus. That "woman's crime has separate* me from ker for ever. Pray sometimes for poor Kate." "Pow thing!" we said. "And what became of her V " We never knew," replied Mrs Deaison. "My fether advertised for her, offering in the advertisement to provide for her if she would let us know where she was; but, probably, she never •aw the paper containing it." "And that horrible Mrs Deloraine and the man-servant? Were they ever found and punished?" * She .shook her head. "No. We had no railways, no electric telegraphs m those days. They escai cd. Probably they went to Australia. We never heard of them again. By degrees we forgot the whole affair, or rather never thought about it. But you will allow I liad a very narrow escape."