finished she approached Lucy again, and renewed her solicitations.
"No, no, I wish nothing," replied she, in a faint and exhausted voice. "Is the door shut?" she exclaimed, with momentary energy; "is it well secured?"
The old woman approached the door, and showed her that it was firmly bolted. "You see," said she, "it is well fastened. Are you satisfied now?"
"Oh! satisfied! satisfied! in this place!" said Lucy, sinking into her corner. "But God knows that I am here."
"Come to bed. What would you do there, lying like a dog? How silly to refuse comforts when you can have them!"
"No, no, leave me to myself."
"Well, remember it is your own fault; if you wish to come to bed, you can—I have left room enough for you; remember I have asked you very often." Thus saying, she drew the clothes over her, and soon all was profound silence.
Lucy remained motionless, with her face buried in her hands, which rested on her knees; she was neither awake nor asleep, but in a dreamy state of the imagination, painful, vague, and changeful. At first, she recalled with something of self-possession the minutest circumstances of this horrible day; then her reason for a moment forsook its throne, vainly struggling against the phantoms conjured by uncertainty and terror; at last, weary and exhausted, she sunk on the floor, in a state approaching to, and resembling, sleep. But suddenly she awoke, as at an internal call, and strove to recall her scattered senses, to know where she was, and why she had been brought thither. She heard a noise, and listened; it was the heavy breathing of the old woman, in a deep slumber; she opened her eyes on the objects around her, which the flickering of the lamp, now dying in its socket, rendered confused and indistinct. But soon her recent impressions returned distinctly to her mind, and the unfortunate girl recognised her prison; and with the knowledge came associated all the terrors of this horrible day; and, overcome anew by anxiety and terror, she
