Since that time I have not seen her. I am quite unable to account for the seizure from any cause but that of a chill; an hypothesis which, I must admit, rests its authority almost solely on the fact that no other can be found.’

3. Extracts from Mrs. Anderton’s Journal—continued.

Jan. 20, 1855.—At last I get back once more to my old brown friend.12 Dear old thing, how pleasant its old face seems! Very little to-day, though; only a word or two, just to say it is done. Oh, how it tries one.

Jan. 25.—My own dear husband’s birthday; and, thank Heaven! I am once more able to sit with him. Oh! how kind he has been through all these weary weeks, when I have been so fretful and impatient. Why should suffering make one cross? God knows, I have suffered. I never thought to live through that terrible night. It makes me shudder to think of it. And, then, that horrid, deathlike, leaden taste—that was worst of all. Well, thank God! I am better now, but so weak. I am quite tired with writing even these few lines…

Feb. 12.—How weak I still am! Walked out to-day with dear William, for the first time, upon the pier; but had scarcely got to the end of it, when I felt so tired I was obliged to sit down, while poor William went to fetch a chair to take me home.

Feb. 13.—I have been quite startled today. I was talking to Dr. Watson about my being so tired yesterday, and about how very weak I still was, and how ill I had been—and, at last, he let slip that, at the time, he thought I had been poisoned. It gave me quite a turn, and then he tried to make us talk of something else; but I could not get it out of my head, and kept coming back and back to it, and wondering who could have had any possible interest in poisoning poor me. And so we went on talking; and, at last Dr. Watson said something which let out that at first he had suspected—William! my own William! my precious, precious husband! Oh! I thought I should have choked on the spot. I don’t know what I said, but I do know I could not have said too much, and poor William tried to laugh it off, and said: ‘Who else would have gained anything by it? Would he not have had that miserable 25,000l.? and besides him, there was no one but the Charities in India, and they could not have done it, because they would not exist till we were gone;’ but I could see how he winced at the idea, and I felt as though my blood were really boiling in my veins. And then that man—oh! how thankful I shall be when we can get away from him—tried to persuade me that he had not really thought it. I should think not, indeed! and that he soon saw it was impossible, and all that; and at last, I fairly burst out crying with passion, and ran out of the room. And—and—I could cry now to think of my poor dear Willie being—and I shall, too, if I go on thinking about it any longer, so I will write no more to-night.

Feb. 15.—No journal yesterday: I really could not trust myself to write. And poor Willie, though he tried to laugh at it, I could see how bitterly he felt the imputation. Good Heaven! think if that wretched man had really charged him with it. It would have killed him. I know it would, and he would rather have died a thousand times.