Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 096.djvu/299

Rh the throat of her first lover; and thereupon he maliciously poured forth all that had happened. I was in the kitchen, and only caught part of what he was saying. I instantly left what I was about, rushed in, and cried to him, 'Mads, Mads! for God's sake, what is that you are saying?' But it was too late; there she sate, as white as a plastered wall, and her eyes stood fixed in her head.

"'What am I saying?' retorted Mads; 'I am saying nothing but the truth: It is better for her to know that, than to treat her like a fool, and let her be waiting for a dead man the whole of her life.'

"He left us; but her reason had fled again, never more to return in this mortal life. You see yourself in what state she is; at all hours, when she is not sleeping, she is singing that song, which she herself composed when Esben went to Holstein, and she fancies that she is spinning linen for her house when married. But she is quiet enough, Heaven be praised! and does not attempt to harm the meanest creature that lives; however, we dare not lose sight of her for a moment. May God take pity upon us, and soon call us both away!"

As she uttered these last words, the unfortunate girl entered with her keeper.

"No," said she, "to-day he is not to be seen—but we shall surely have him to-morrow. I must make haste, or I shall not have finished this linen." She placed herself hurriedly upon her low straw chair, and with her hands and feet in rapid, yet mimic action, she recommenced her mournful ditty.

These words, so often repeated,always drew forth a heavy sigh; and as she sang them, her pale, but still lovely face, would sink on her breast, her hands and feet would become languidly still, but directly she would rouse herself up to her labour, commence another verse, and set the invisible wheel going again.

In deep thought, I wandered forth from the widow's house. My soul was as dark as the colour of the heath I trod on; my whole mind was occupied with Cecilia and her dreadful fate. In every airy phantom, far and near, that flitted before my eyes, I fancied I beheld the unfortunate maniac as she sat and seemed to spin, and rocked herself, and threw up and down her hands with untiring motion. In the wild birds' plaintive whistle—in the lonely heath lark's mournful song, I heard only that one sorrowful truth—the words, alas! deeply felt by thousands of saddened hearts—