"Three or four and thirty, I suppose; but there is no judging of a
person in his situation."

"Are you sure that he is mad?" interrupted Maria with eagerness. 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