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conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and
weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old
servant, were all gazing at me.
'St. John, who is it?' I heard one ask.
'I cannot tell: I found her at the door,' was the reply.
'She does look white,' said Hannah.
'As white as clay or death,' was responded. 'She will fall: let her
sit.'
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I
still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.
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'Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some.
But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!'
'A mere spectre!'
'Is she ill, or only famished?'
'Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece
of bread.'
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me
and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk,
and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in
it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words,
too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: 'Try to eat.'
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