“No one to come to me.  I am alone in the world.  My mother died when I was a child and my father two years ago.  He was an officer.  I was his only child, and used to go about with him.  I have no friends.”

Her voice faltered more and more.  When it ceased she seemed choking a cry.

“Since then,” she resumed, “I have been a governess.  My last situation was in Yorkshire, in a cold part of the county, and my health began to fail me.  I heard that Glaston was a warm place, and one where I should be likely to get employment.  But I was taken ill on my way there, and forced to stop.  A lady in the train told me this was such a sweet, quiet little place, and so when we got to the station I came on here.”

Again Faber could not speak.  The thought of a lady like her traveling about alone looking for work was frightful!  “And they talk of a God in the world!” he said to himself—­and felt as if he never could forgive Him.

“I have papers to show,” she added quietly, as if bethinking herself that he might be taking her for an impostor.

All the time she had never looked him in the face.  She had fixed her gaze on the far horizon, but a smile, half pitiful, half proud, flickered about the wonderful curves of her upper lip.

“I am glad you have told me,” he said.  “I may be of service to you, if you will permit me.  I know a great many families about here.”

“Oh, thank you!” she cried, and with an expression of dawning hope, which made her seem more beautiful than ever, she raised her eyes and looked him full in the face:  it was the first time he had seen her eyes lighted up, except with fever.  Then she turned from him, and, apparently lost in relief, walked toward the arbor a few steps distant.  He followed her, a little behind, for the path was narrow, his eyes fixed on her exquisite cheek.  It was but a moment, yet the very silence seemed to become conscious.  All at once she grew paler, shuddered, put her hand to her head, and entering the arbor, sat down.  Faber was alarmed.  Her hand was quite cold.  She would have drawn it away, but he insisted on feeling her pulse.

“You must come in at once,” he said.

She rose, visibly trembling.  He supported her into the house, made her lie down, got a hot bottle for her feet, and covered her with shawls and blankets.

“You are quite unfit for any exertion yet,” he said, and seated himself near her.  “You must consent to be an invalid for a while.  Do not be anxious.  There is no fear of your finding what you want by the time you are able for it.  I pledge myself.  Keep your mind perfectly easy.”

She answered him with a look that dazzled him.  Her very eyelids seemed radiant with thankfulness.  The beauty that had fixed his regard was now but a mask through which her soul was breaking, assimilating it.  His eyes sank before the look, and he felt himself catching his breath like a drowning man.  When he raised them again he saw tears streaming down her face.  He rose, and saying he would call again in the evening, left the room.