“I cannot tell: I found her at the toms shoes store 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.
“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.”
“Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s hand removed
my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered
me: feebly at first, eagerly soon.
“Not too much at first—restrain her,” said the brother; “she has
had enough.” And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of
bread.
“A little more, St. John—look at the avidity in her eyes.”
“No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now—ask her
her name.”