THE IDIOT GIRL.
When Peverell reached his own house, his man Francis met him with a
strangely mysterious look and manner.
"Here is one within," said he, "that will not, by any dint of persuasion,
go; though I have been two good hours trying my skill to that end."
"Who is it?" inquired Peverell.
"That, neither, can I discover," quoth Francis. "She knocked at the
door--it might be something after eleven, perhaps near upon twelve--and
when I opened it, she whips into the hall without saying a word, walks
into every room in the house--I following her, as a beadle follows a rogue,
till he sees him beyond the parish bounds--and at last takes possession of
your low chair, and, without so much as 'by your leave,' begins to wring
her hands, and cry 'Lord! Lord!'--What do you want, good woman?" said I.
But I might as well have addressed myself to the walls, for 'Lord! Lord!'
was all her moan."
Peverell hastened into the room, and there he saw poor Madge--her face
buried in her hands, rocking to and fro, weeping most piteously, and as
Francis had described, ever and anon calling upon the Lord, but in a tone
of such utter wretchedness, that it pierced his very heart.
He spoke to her. She started up at the sound of his voice, looked at him,
and then mournfully exclaimed, while she pointed to the ground--"They have
buried her!"
"Then be comforted," said Peverell, in a kind and soothing voice; "your
hardest trial is past.
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