“Is it your maid?” he asked. Old Bethlehem, or Bedlam,—every trace of which has been swept away, and the hospital for lunatics removed to Saint George's Field,—was a vast and magnificent structure. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. And it's a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice. F.
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