`No,' she answered. `I was born in Hampshire; but I once went to school for a little while in Cumberland. Lakes? I don't remember any lakes. It's Limmeridge village, and Limmeridge House, I should like to see again.'

It was my turn now to stop suddenly. In the excited state of my curiosity, at that moment, the chance reference to Mr Fairlie's place of residence, on the lips of my strange companion, staggered me with astonishment.

`Did you hear anybody calling after us?' she asked, looking up and down the road affrightedly, the instant I stopped.

`No, no. I was only struck by the name of Limmeridge House. I heard it mentioned by some Cumberland people a few days since.'

`Ah! not my people. Mrs Fairlie is dead; and her husband is dead; and their little girl may be married and gone away by this time. I can't say who lives at Limmeridge now. If any more are left there of that name, I only know I love them for Mrs Fairlie's sake.'

She seemed about to say more; but while she was speaking, we came within view of the turnpike, at the top of the Avenue Road. Her hand tightened round my arm, and she looked anxiously at the gate before us.

`Is the turnpike man looking out?' she asked.

He was not looking out; no one else was near the place when we passed through the gate. The sight of the gas-lamps and houses seemed to agitate her, and to make her impatient.

`This is London,' she said. `Do you see any carriage I can get? I am tired and frightened. I want to shut myself in and be driven away.'

I explained to her that we must walk a little further to get to a cab-stand, unless we were fortunate enough to meet with an empty vehicle; and then tried to resume the subject of Cumberland. It was useless. That idea of shutting herself in, and being driven away, had now got full possession of her mind. She could think and talk of nothing else.

We had hardly proceeded a third of the way down the Avenue Road when I saw a cab draw up at a house a few doors below us, on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman got out and let himself in at the garden door. I hailed the cab, as the driver mounted the box again. When we crossed the road, my companion's impatience increased to such an extent that she almost forced me to run.

`It's so late,' she said. `I am only in a hurry because it's so late.'

`I can't take you, sir, if you're not going towards Tottenham Court Road,' said the driver civilly, when I opened the cab door. `My horse is dead beat, and I can't get him no further than the stable.'

`Yes, yes. That will do for me. I'm going that way -- I'm going that way.' She spoke with breathless eagerness, and pressed by me into the cab.

I had assured myself that the man was sober as well as civil before I let her enter the vehicle. And now, when she was seated inside, I entreated her to let me see her set down safely at her destination.

`No, no, no,' she said vehemently. `I'm quite safe, and quite happy now. If you are a gentleman, remember your promise. Let him drive on till I stop him. Thank you -- oh! thank you, thank you!'

My hand was on the cab door. She caught it in hers, kissed it, and pushed it away. The cab drove off at the same moment -- I started into the road, with some vague idea of stopping it again, I hardly knew