Emilia let her hand rest in Merthyr’s, wondering to think that there should be no absolute darkness for a creature to escape into while living.  A trembling came on her.  “Let me look over at the water,” she said; and Merthyr, who trusted her even in that extremity, allowed her to lean forward, and felt her grasp grow moist in his, till she turned back with shudders, giving him both her hands.  “A drowned woman looks so dreadful!” Her speech was faint as she begged to be taken away from that place.  Merthyr put his hand to her arm-pit, sustaining her steps.  As they neared the level where men were, she looked behind her and realized the black terrors she had just been blindly handling.  Fright sped her limbs for a second or two, and then her whole weight hung upon Merthyr.  He held her in both arms, thinking that she had swooned, but she murmured:  “Have you heard that my voice has gone?”

“If you have suffered, I do not wonder,” he said.

“I am useless.  My voice is dead.”

“Useless to your friends?  Tush, my little Emilia!  Sandra mia!  Don’t you know that while you love your friends that’s all they want of you?”

“Oh!” she moaned; “the gas-lamp hurts me.  What a noise there is!”

“We shall soon get away from the noise.”

“No; I like it; but not the light.  Oh, my feet!—­why are you walking still?  What friends?”

“For instance, myself.”

“You knew of my wandering about London!  It makes me believe in heaven.  I can’t bear to think of being unseen.”

“This morning,” said Merthyr, “I saw the policeman in whose house you have been staying.”

Emilia bowed her head to the mystery by which this friend was endowed to be cognizant of her actions.  “I feel that I have not seen the streets for years.  If it were not for you I should fall down.—­Oh! do you understand that my voice has quite gone?”

Merthyr perceived her anxiety to be that she might not betaken on doubtful terms.  “Your hand hasn’t,” he said, pressing it, and so gratified her with a concrete image of something that she could still bestow upon a friend.  To this she clung while the noisy wheels bore her through London, till her weak body failed to keep courage in her breast, and she wept and came closer to Merthyr.  He who supposed that her recent despair and present tears were for the loss of her lover, gave happily more comfort than he took.  “When old gentlemen choose to interest themselves about very young ladies,” he called upon his humorous philosophy to observe internally, as men do to forestall the possible cynic external;—­and the rest of the sentence was acted under his eyes by the figures of three persons.  But, there she was, lying within his arm, rescued, the creature whom he had found filling his heart, when lost, and whom he thought one of the most hopeful of the women of earth!  He thanked God for bare facts.  She lay against him with her eyelids softly joined, and as he felt the breathing of her body, he marvelled to think how matter-of-fact they had both been on the brink of a tragedy, and how naturally she had, as it were, argued herself up to the gates of death.  For want of what?  “My sister may supply it,” thought Merthyr.