The Birth of Venus

I'll not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?'
`Yes,' I observed, `about as starved and sackless as you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You're so low, I dare say I shall keep up with you.
`No,' she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing, at intervals, to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.
`Catherine, why are you crying, love?' I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. `You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.
She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs.
`Oh, it will be something worse,' she said. `And what shall I do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can't forget your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary the world will be, when papa and you are dead.'