“But, my dear,” she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it upon mine.  “You have not congratulated me on my physician.  Positively not once, yet!”

I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.

“My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly attentive to me.  Though his services were rendered quite gratuitously.  Until the Day of Judgment.  I mean the judgment that will dissolve the spell upon me of the mace and seal.”

“Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now,” said I, “that I thought the time for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite.”

“But, my child,” she returned, “is it possible that you don’t know what has happened?”

“No,” said I.

“Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz Jarndyce!”

“No,” said I.  “You forget how long I have been here.”

“True!  My dear, for the moment—­true.  I blame myself.  But my memory has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what I mentioned.  Ve-ry strong influence, is it not?  Well, my dear, there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those East Indian seas.”

“Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked!”

“Don’t be agitated, my dear.  He is safe.  An awful scene.  Death in all shapes.  Hundreds of dead and dying.  Fire, storm, and darkness.  Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock.  There, and through it all, my dear physician was a hero.  Calm and brave through everything.  Saved many lives, never complained in hunger and thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare clothes, took the lead, showed them what to do, governed them, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the poor survivors safely off at last!  My dear, the poor emaciated creatures all but worshipped him.  They fell down at his feet when they got to the land and blessed him.  The whole country rings with it.  Stay!  Where’s my bag of documents?  I have got it there, and you shall read it, you shall read it!”

And I did read all the noble history, though very slowly and imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see the words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to lay down the long account she had cut out of the newspaper.  I felt so triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such generous and gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation in his renown, I so admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-worn people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their preserver.  I could myself have kneeled down then, so far away, and blessed him in my rapture that he should be so truly good and brave.  I felt that no one—­mother, sister, wife—­could honour him more than I. I did, indeed!

My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and when as the evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lest she should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was still full of the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufficiently composed myself to understand in all its details.