they did not require the use of speech.  She appeared to be tranquillized by the presence of Helen, and loved to have her seated at the bedside.  Yet something, whatever it was, prevented her from opening her heart to her kind companion; and even now there were times when she would lie looking at her, with such a still, watchful, almost dangerous expression, that Helen would sigh, and change her place, as persons do whose breath some cunning orator has been sucking out of them with his spongy eloquence, so that, when he stops, they must get some air and stir about, or they feel as if they should be half-smothered and palsied.

It was too much to keep guessing what was the meaning of all this.  Helen determined to ask Old Sophy some questions which might probably throw light upon her doubts.  She took the opportunity one evening when Elsie was lying asleep and they were both sitting at some distance from her bed.

“Tell me, Sophy,” she said, “was Elsie always as shy as she seems to be now, in talking with those to whom she is friendly?”

“Alway jes’ so, Miss Darlin’, ever sence she was little chil’.  When she was five, six year old, she lisp some,—­call me Thophy; that make her kin’ o’ ’shamed, perhaps:  after she grow up, she never lisp, but she kin’ o’ got the way o’ not talkin’ much.  Fac’ is, she don’ like talkin’ as common gals do, ‘xcep’ jes’ once in a while with some partic’lar folks,—­’n’ then not much.”

“How old is Elsie?”

“Eighteen year this las’ September.”

“How long ago did her mother die?” Helen asked, with a little trembling in her voice.

“Eighteen year ago this October,” said Old Sophy.

Helen was silent for a moment.  Then she whispered, almost inaudibly,—­for her voice appeared to fail her,—­

“What did her mother die of, Sophy?”

The old woman’s small eyes dilated until a ring of white showed round their beady centres.  She caught Helen by the hand and clung to it, as if in fear.  She looked round at Elsie, who lay sleeping, as if she might be listening.  Then she drew Helen towards her and led her softly out of the room.

“‘Sh!—­’sh!” she said, as soon as they were outside the door.  “Don’ never speak in this house ’bout what Elsie’s mother died of!” she said.  “Nobody never says nothin’ ‘bout it.  Oh, God has made Ugly Things wi’ death in their mouths, Miss Darlin’, an’ He knows what they’re for; but my poor Elsie!—­to have her blood changed in her before—­It was in July Mistress got her death, but she liv’ till three week after my poor Elsie was born.”