She spoke the last words as if merely thinking aloud, and not addressing an auditor.

“Can I aid you in anything, madam?” said I, breaking in upon a state of reverie into which her mind seemed to be falling.  “The circumstances under which you find yourself are peculiar—­I refer to the death of Mrs. Allen, following so quickly on your arrival among strangers—­and you may stand in need of friendly service from one who knows the people and their ways.  If so, do not hesitate to command me.”

“I thank you sincerely,” she answered, unbending still more from her almost stately manner.  “Friendly consideration I shall need, of course—­as who does not in this world?  And I repeat my thanks, that you have so kindly and so promptly anticipated my needs So far as the remains of my unhappy kinswoman are concerned, I have referred all to the undertaker.  He will carry out my wishes.  To-morrow the interment will take place.  On the day following, if it it is altogether agreeable to yourself, I would esteem a call as a particular favor.”

I arose, as she concluded the last sentence, saying as I did so,

“I will be sure to call, madam; and render any service in my power.  You may regard me as a friend.”

“Already you have extorted my confidence,” she answered, faintly smiling.

I bowed low, and was retiring when she said—­

“A moment, Doctor!”

I turned toward her again.

“Doctor, it may be well for you to see my daughter.”

“Is she indisposed?” I asked.

“Not exactly that.  But the excitement and alarm of the last two or three days have been, I fear, rather too much for her nerves.  I say alarm, for the poor girl was really frightened at Mrs. Allen’s wild conduct—­and no wonder.  Death following in so sad a way, shocked her painfully.  She did not sleep well last night; and this morning she looks pale and drooping.  In all probability, quiet of mind and body will soon adjust the balance of health; still, it may be safest for you to see her.”

“A mere temporary disturbance, no doubt, which, as you suggest, quiet of mind and body will, in all probability, overcome.  Yet it will do no harm for me to see her; and may save trouble.”

“Excuse me a moment,” she said, and left the room.  In a little while she returned, and asked me to accompany her up stairs,

I found the daughter in a black and gray silk wrapper, seated on a lounge.  She arose as I entered, a slight flush coming into her face, which subsided in a few moments, leaving it quite pale, and weary looking.  After we were all seated, I took her hand, which was hot in the palm, but cold at the extremities.  Her pulse was feeble, disturbed, and quick.

“How is your head?” I asked.

“It feels a little strangely,” she replied, moving it two or three times, as if to get some well defined sensation.

“Any pain?”

“Yes; a dull kind of pain over my left eye, that seems to go deep into my head.”