so much to her like a child, that unconsciously her voice and expression were those of one who talks to a child. There were many things she wanted to learn yet, and she must keep him as calm as possible.

"But I am almost mad," he said. "I have neither a sound mind nor a sound body. I have destroyed them both. O my God! what

is to become of us?"

A cry which Hester echoed in her heart of hearts. She knew that his words were true; that he had been dwelling too long on the borderland between sanity and insanity. But then, was it indeed true that his hand had not been suddenly hurried into a deed of violence such as he had committed against Robert Waldron? How was she to be sure of that? Rose was dead-murdered. Who could be guilty, if it were not her father? She felt a steadfast child-like loyalty towards him. If he were criminal, her calm, innocent, simple nature would understand the character of his crime better than a more worldly and more divided heart could have done. It was heinous, terrible, mournful, but not unpardonable: not without extenuating circumstances. She must

think for him, take the guidance of his flight. To her fell the choice of a city of refuge.

"Where are we going to?" she asked, and the simplicity of her question struck her forcibly amidst the perplexity of their circumstances.

"We are going to Paris," he answered; "after that, anywhere, anywhere that I can be safe."

The morning dawned before Hester could form any plan for the future. She saw the pale streaks of light coming across the smooth level of the sea, and playing upon the edge of its soft ripple. Her father had fallen into an uneasy slumber, and his dress and hers were wet with the heavy dew of the night. She had been tempted to wish that both of them could be lost amidst the multitude of waves, and lie together in peace with the depths closing them about, and the weeds wrapped about their heads. The captain came and looked compassionately upon her father's pallid face, and she called a shadowy smile to her lips and eyes as she met his gaze.

'Good-morning," he said, in a low tone; "we have had a very "Yes," she answered.

fine passage across."

"You have crossed before?" he continued.

"No," said Hester.

"Well, there is no trouble; the omnibus will be at the gate of the custom-house to take you straight on to the station. I will get your luggage passed quickly."

"We have scarcely any luggage," she answered, with an inward tremor; "only my father's portmanteau. I shall buy all I want in Paris."

"To be sure," said the captain; "you will get everything in the first fashion there."

A spasm of hysterical laughter contracted Hester's throat, and played oddly upon her face. A flash of the grotesque darted across the profound darkness of her circumstances; but it brought with it a vivid quickening of her oppressed brain. She saw what she could do. She would pass quickly through Paris with her father, not tarrying there at all, and go on to Burgundy. She knew well by the minute description of Lawson's mother, the little town from which she had come. It was a very quiet, very remote place, several leagues from the nearest line of rail, and where the visit of any English was an almost unheard-of

thing. In this hour of keen mental activity she could recollect the names of the curé, the doctor, the baker even; all whose histories the garrulous old Frenchwoman had loved to narrate. The little town did not seem strange to Hester. It offered her an asylum from afar off within its old grey walls. She knew the patois of the province well; she could speak it as freely as the purer French Robert Waldron had perfected her in. This should be their city of refuge.

CHAPTER VIII.

A CITY OF REFUGE.

HESTER experienced no difficulty in making her way through Paris. Her habit of conversing in French with Lawson and his mother had given her a fluent use of the language; and though her manner and appearance, as well as her father's, were unmistakably English, she had no need to attract unusual attention to them by any ignorance or difficulty on her part. She made inquiries as to the route for Burgundy, and went at once from one station to the other, staying no more than a few hours in Paris. They arrived in safety, and without observation, at the small country station to which they were bound. There were yet six leagues to accomplish before reaching Ecquemonville; but an omnibus from that town was waiting for the train. It was a four hours' journey, for the diligence was heavy and cumbrous, and the cart-horses attached to it by rope-harness were slow-footed; four miles and a half an hour was the utmost speed they