Jemima quitted the room, without replying.
"No, no, he certainly is not!" exclaimed Maria, answering herself; "the man who could write those observations was not disordered in his intellects." She sat musing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it seemed to glide under the clouds.

Then, preparing for bed, she thought, "Of what use could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is unjustly confined ?--Could he aid me to escape, who is himself more closely watched ?--Still I should like to see him." She went to bed, dreamed of her child, yet woke exactly at half after five o'clock, and starting up, only wrapped a gown around her, and ran to the window.

The morning was chill, it was the latter end of September; yet she did not retire to warm herself and think in bed, till the sound of the servants, moving about the house, convinced her that the unknown would not walk in the garden that morning.

She was ashamed at feeling disappointed; and began to reflect, as an excuse to herself, on the little objects which attract attention when there is nothing to divert the mind; and how difficult it was for women to avoid growing romantic, who have no active duties or pursuits.
At breakfast, Jemima enquired whether she understood French?
for, unless she did, the stranger's stock of books was exhausted.

Maria replied in the affirmative; but forbore to ask any more questions respecting the person to whom they belonged.