one wing; but all the other windows were in darkness, and many exhibited their black, cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute of glazing or frame work.
"Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?" said I, after a moment of silent contemplation.
"I do, sometimes," replied she. "On winter evenings, when Arthur is in bed, and I am sitting there alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round me and howling through the ruinous old chambers, no books or occupations can repress the dismal thoughts and apprehensions that come crowding in—but it is folly to give way to such weakness I know—If Rachel is satisfied with such a life, why should not I?—Indeed I cannot be too thankful for such an asylum, while it is left me."
The closing sentence was uttered in an under tone, as if spoken rather to herself than to me. She then bid me good evening and withdrew.
