“Dim Saesoneg.”

So he had to repeat it in English.

“Well, now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me.  But don’t try me too long; tell me why you sent for me.”

Now came the difficulty, and oh! for a seraph’s tongue, and a seraph’s powers of representation!  But there was no seraph at hand, only the soft running waters singing a quiet tune, and predisposing Miss Benson to listen with a soothed spirit to any tale, not immediately involving her brother’s welfare, which had been the cause of her seeing that lovely vale.

“It is an awkward story to tell, Faith, but there is a young woman lying ill at my lodgings whom I wanted you to nurse.”

He thought he saw a shadow on his sister’s face, and detected a slight change in her voice as she spoke.

“Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan.  Remember, I cannot stand much romance; I always distrust it.”

“I don’t know what you mean by romance.  The story is real enough, and not out of the common way, I’m afraid.”

He paused; he did not get over the difficulty.

“Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan.  I am afraid you have let some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you; but don’t try my patience too much; you know I’ve no great stock.”

“Then I’ll tell you.  The young girl was brought to the inn here by a gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one to see after her.”

Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a long, low whistle when surprised or displeased.  She had often found it a useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now.  Her brother would rather she had spoken.

“Have you sent for her friends?” she asked, at last.

“She has none.”

Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more wavering than the last.

“How is she ill?”

“Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead.  She does not speak, or move, or even sigh.”

“It would be better for her to die at once, I think.”

“Faith!”

That one word put them right.  It was spoken in the tone which had authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and mournful upbraiding.  She was accustomed to exercise a sway over him, owing to her greater decision of character, and, probably, if everything were traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of constitution; but at times she was humbled before his pure, childlike nature, and felt where she was inferior.  She was too good and true to conceal this feeling, or to resent its being forced upon her.  After a time she said—­

“Thurstan dear, let us go to her.”

She helped him with tender care, and gave him her arm up the long and tedious hill; but when they approached the village, without speaking a word on the subject, they changed their position, and she leant (apparently) on him.  He stretched himself up into as vigorous a gait as he could, when they drew near to the abodes of men.