shouted and laughed so loudly, that Lucy began to fear that she was wrong in releasing her. She had been kneeling beside the maniac while removing the chain which confined her feet, and she still remained in the same position, fixed there by astonishment at her cousin's violence. But Amy soon became more quiet, and sung gaily a song which Lucy had once loved to hear it had never sounded so sweetly before, yet every word thrilled to Lucy's heart, and she burst into tears—the chain fell heavily from her hand- Amy heard it fall, and her song stopped. She turned round, and looked with a fearful glance on her cousin, but Lucy held out her arms to Amy, and took up the song she had left off singing, half hoping to soothe her. She sung very softly, and she trembled while she sung, so that her voice died frequently away to murmurs. Amy bent forward, as if to catch every faintest word of the song; and when it ceased, she stood motionless and silent, her lips unclosed, and her eyes widely opened. Then Lucy, when she beheld her so fixed and still, was even more fearful; but she approached nearer to her cousin, and put her arm round her neck, and looked up with timid yet earnest affection in her vacant countenance, and spoke a few kind words. At the first sound of her voice in speaking, Amy turned her eyes towards her, and, as she continued speaking, looks of more bright and full intelligence came into her face. Her voice was choked in her throat as she strove to speak, but tears gushed from her eyes she wept upon Lucy's bosom. "I know you now," said Amy, as she gently disengaged herself from the arms of her cousin, "I am much better, and I see you are my cousin Lucy. I am better, but I shall never be what I have been. I am a poor half-witted creature, yet I would not harm a worm. They have driven me to this," she said, and she looked sorrowfully about the cell. Why did they send my old father from his mill, and bring me up to this horrid place? I cannot bear to have cruel unkind strangers about me. Why did you go away, cousin Lucy? Don't go away again; and yet you must go from this frightful place. O cousin Lucy, cousin Lucy!" she said, and smiled. "I know what we can do; you may go away, and I will go with you." Amy clung to her cousin's arm, and whispered in her ear: "I am very glad I thought of this-I am going to be happy again. Oh Lucy! you don't speak, you don't answer me; and you look so very grave! Ah! you do not wish to have me with you! Take me away, and try me-they think me worse than I am, they made me worse than I was-you know, cousin, I was never so very unruly with you. Oh dear, dear! I was once very gentle; and so I will be, cousin Lucy.— What! will you not speak yet? You are angry with me, and you look angry. Pity me, for I have no friend but you. Take me away; I shall die if you leave me here!-take me away," she continued, falling on her knees before Amy, and clinging round her" don't turn your sweet face from me!" "Dear cousin," said Lucy tenderly, weeping as she spoke, "I will never turn away from you. You shall leave this place, and I will not go away till I can take you with me. The Blessed God will forsake me if I ever abandon you again!" The husband of Lucy had accompanied her to Bedlam, and he remained below, waiting for his wife. Amy went with them that day to their own home. She lived with them many years, and was ever a gentle and unoffending creature. Serjeant Moor turned farmer; for at an uncle's death he became the possessor of a farm near Guildford. In the summer months Amy Wilton used always to steal away from her kind friends, and wander about for a few weeks, always on the same pilgrimage to the village of Fm. When she had looked on the mill and her infant's green grave, she would return quietly to those who loved her. She soon became well known in the villages through which she passed, and all who knew her, delighted to shew some kindness to the unoffending maniac. |