CHAPTER XLI.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 289, 11 August 1888, Page 3

CHAPTER XLI.

A \\ HDDTMJ AT TJIR Wll ITK HART JNN'. Wi! loft Judith lying in a swoon before the door ot one of the many cells in the Lancaster Moor Asylum. When she recovered her senses she was on a couch in the tiist mation'tf room, and good Mrs Thatcher was bending oaoi- her, and crying like a baby, and Doctor Pcnryth was compounding a composing draught ab ■i table in one comer. As Judith aioso to a Pitting posture, he brought it to the bedside. 'Here, madam,' he said, curtly, putting the glass to her lips, ' drink this, it you please — 'twill strengthen your ner\ e.s. Women like you,' ho added, as Judith swallowed it, ' should never visit insane asylums.' • Doc tor,' paid Judith, auietly, her brown eyes idled with their old stoadfast light, ' I did not swoon from iright ; it was because 1 lecognised the face of my dearest friend, one whom I have mourned as being dead for } ears. ' ' What?' questioned the doctor, sharply ; ' the counters you « cie inquiring Jor V 'No, sir -not the counters; it was a man'— and a taint (lush rose to her pale cheeks — ' the face of a man that 1 i?a a : and, doctor,' she added solemnly, ' unless 1 am in a dream, or insanu mysclt, it was the lace of Hendrick Dixon, my afh'anced husband, whose death I have mourned for thir teen years. ' There was a certain quiet dignity in the gill's demeanout that won respect for her, a pathos and truth in her steadfast eyes than touched even Doctor Penryth's Heart. ' Dixon !' he reflected. ' Dixon ! By Jove, theie is a fellow here by that name ! Let's see — he's been heie foi ycais — a teaman, or something of that sort — sent here hum the Seamen's Hospital.' Judith got on hci feet \eiy quietly, but hu) taue was at. white as death ' Come,' she baid impel ativelj , ' take me to him at once !' ' And have you swooning on my hands again ?' ciied the doctor, imuabienbly. ' Wait !' But Judith did nut- heed him. She motioned to the keeper, and he obeyed, leading the way down the corridor. The ductoi followed so did ]\]is Thatcher, in a maze of bewildered astonishment. They pasted down the dusty hall between two lone rows of cells, from which the pooi cicatureh worn gazing out; and pies-enHy they came to that, window, but it •was unoccupied Swift as thought; Judith approached it. ' Hendrick !' she called, her \oice thrilling with unutterable tenderness, ' Hendrick ' These was a quick movement within, and a pale, startled face looked out upon them. One moment they stood thus, face to race, eye td eye, thet-e two, so fondly devoted to each other, so cruelly parted. A slow light or reason, and lecognition, and unspeakable joy began to dawn in the poor fellow's patieir ey. a. 'Judith!' he half sobbed; ' why, it is Judith !' Then he reeled where he sLood, gapped once or twice, and fell heavily to the door within. ! 'Ho needed a shock, and he's got it.' said Doetoi I J cnrytn, now thoroughly interested, as ho unlocked the cell door; ' and I'll wage- my head he's a sane man when he comes round !' And Doctor Penryth was right ! A week later, in the golden glamour of a June twilight, Hendrick and Judith sat side by side on the rear porch of the White Halt Inn. Judith was dressed with charming taste, in a brown silk that had a golden tint just suited to her silken brown hair, with the daintiest of linen cuffs and collars, and a little cluster of English daisies in her bosom, and another amid the heavy braids that crowned her head. Her cheeks wove a bright Hush, and her steadfast eyes were filled with a beaming light that made hor whole face beautiful. Her hands wore clasped fondly about her lover's arm, as if she never again meant to suffer him to leave her. She had heard his story, and it was a brief and simple one. The Victoiia took tire on her homeward voyage, and while he was striving to save otheis, Hendrick was struck down by a burning spar. After that blow upon his 'head, all the world was, a blank. B e was picked up, cared for by the crew of an English vessel, carried homo to England, and consigned to tho treatment of the surgeons in tho Seamens' Hospital. But Ins malady was beyond their skill ; he was gentie, kindly, tender, but his mind and memory were both utterly jione. After a time he was transferred to tho Insane Asylum ; and there, during all the weary years in which poor Judith had mourned his death, he was shut up, a man | who had no past, no future, whose mind was blank. Bub the poor fellow's love rose supreme above the wreck of his mind and memory — the sight of Judith's face, and the sound of her voice, moved him for the first time in thirteen dreary yoara. And sitting beside her in the June twilight, he watched her with a tender, childlike devotion, that was touching to see. 'You are my all, Judith,' he said, his voice slow and tender ; ' and I like to have it so. Everything olso, all my past life is a blank — I cannot recall a single memory. It is as if I were out to sea, Judith, with the thick black of a midnight storm all around me, and only one bright star. You are my star, Judith ; I want nothing olse beside. ' Judith's happy eyes overflowed with tears. 'Oh, Hendrick !' she replied, ' what have I done to deserve this blessed joy ? To think how I have mourned over ydur