otel, a low building
of stone, with a high-pitched shingle roof. Constance followed in a
bewilderment of fright, together with Lenchen, the Swiss maid, who, as
well as could be made out, was declaring that a Swiss bearer never made a
false step.

Lady Northmoor was carried into a bedroom, and Constance was shut out
into a room that photographed itself on her memory, even in that
moment--a room like a box, with a rough table, a few folding-chairs, an
easel, water-coloured drawings hung about in all directions, a big
travelling-case, a few books, a writing-case, Mrs. Bury's sitting-room in
fact, which, as a regular sojourner, she had been able to secure and
furnish after her need. From the window, tall, narrow, latticed, with a
heavy outside shutter, she saw a village green, a little church with a
sharp steeple, and pointed-roof houses covered with shingle, groups of
people, a few in picturesque Tyrolese costume, but others in the ordinary
badly cut edition of cosmopolitan human nature. There was a priest in a
big hat and white bordered bands discussing a newspaper with a man with a
big red umbrella; a party drinking coffee under a pine tree, and beyond,
those strange wild pointed aiguilles pointing up purple and red against
the sky.

[Picture: There was a priest in a big hat . . .]

How delightful it would all have been if this quarter of an hour could be
annihilated! She could find out nothing. Lenchen and the
good-natured-looking landlady came in and out and fetched things, but
they never stayed long enough to give her any real information, the
landlady shouting for 'Hemzel,' etc., and Lenchen calling loudly in
German for the boxes, which had been slung on mules. She heard nothing
definite till her uncle came out, looking pale and anxious.

'She is better now,' he said, with a gasp of relief, throwing himself
into a chair, and holding out his hand to Constance, who could hardly
frame her question. 'Yes, quite sensible--came round quickly. The blow
on the head seems to be of no consequence; but there may be a strain, or
it may be only the being worn out and overdone. They are going to
undress her and put her to bed now. Mrs. Bury is kindness itself. I did
not look after her enough on that dreadful road.'

'Isn't there a doctor?' Constance ventured to ask.

'No such thing within I know not how many miles of these paths! But Mrs.
Bury seems to think it not likely to be needed. Over-fatigue