whispered Hollingsworth, “has been a little out of his right mind, as you probably see.”

“What I would inquire,” resumed Moodie, “is whether this beautiful lady is kind to my poor Priscilla.”

“Very kind,” said Hollingsworth.

“Does she love her?” asked Moodie.

“It should seem so,” answered my friend. “They are always together.”

“Like a gentlewoman and her maid-servant, I fancy?” suggested the old man.

There was something so singular in his way of saying this, that I could not resist the impulse to turn quite round, so as to catch a glimpse of his face,