“Poor young thing!” he said.  “She fell—­down the cliffs—­’tis her back—­coastguard saw her ’twerr they fetched her in.  The Lord ’elp her mebbe she’s not broken up much!  An’ Mister Ford don’t know!  I’m gwine for the doctor.”

There was an hour or more to wait before he came; a young fellow; almost a boy.  He looked very grave, when he came out of her room.

“The old woman there fond of her? nurse her well...?  Fond as a dog!—­good!  Don’t know—­can’t tell for certain!  Afraid it’s the spine, must have another opinion!  What a plucky girl!  Tell Mr. Ford to have the best man he can get in Torquay—­there’s C—–.  I’ll be round the first thing in the morning.  Keep her dead quiet.  I’ve left a sleeping draught; she’ll have fever tonight.”

John Ford came in at last.  Poor old man!  What it must have cost him not to go to her for fear of the excitement!  How many times in the next few hours didn’t I hear him come to the bottom of the stairs; his heavy wheezing, and sighing; and the forlorn tread of his feet going back!  About eleven, just as I was going to bed, Mrs. Hopgood came to my door.

“Will yu come, sir,” she said; “she’s asking for yu.  Naowt I can zay but what she will see yu; zeems crazy, don’t it?” A tear trickled down the old lady’s cheek.  “Du ’ee come; ’twill du ’err ’arm mebbe, but I dunno—­she’ll fret else.”

I slipped into the room.  Lying back on her pillows, she was breathing quickly with half-closed eyes.  There was nothing to show that she had wanted me, or even knew that I was there.  The wick of the candle, set by the bedside, had been snuffed too short, and gave but a faint light; both window and door stood open, still there was no draught, and the feeble little flame burned quite still, casting a faint yellow stain on the ceiling like the refection from a buttercup held beneath a chin.  These ceilings are far too low!  Across the wide, squat window the apple branches fell in black stripes which never stirred.  It was too dark to see things clearly.  At the foot of the bed was a chest, and there Mrs. Hopgood had sat down, moving her lips as if in speech.  Mingled with the half-musty smell of age; there were other scents, of mignonette, apples, and some sweet-smelling soap.  The floor had no carpet, and there was not one single dark object except the violin, hanging from a nail over the bed.  A little, round clock ticked solemnly.

“Why won’t you give me that stuff, Mums?” Pasiance said in a faint, sharp voice.  “I want to sleep.”

“Have you much pain?” I asked.

“Of course I have; it’s everywhere.”

She turned her face towards me.

“You thought I did it on purpose, but you’re wrong.  If I had, I’d have done it better than this.  I wouldn’t have this brutal pain.”  She put her fingers over her eyes.  “It’s horrible to complain!  Only it’s so bad!  But I won’t again—­promise.”