try!" wept Hannah.

"Well, there now, I knowed it--I jest did; I knowed if she was turned
out in de snow-storm this night she'd freeze to death! Ole mist'ess aint
no better dan a she-bearess!" grumbled the old man, as he rooted his
arms under the cold dead weight of the unfortunate girl, and with much
tugging succeeded in raising her.

"Now, den, Miss Hannah, hadn't I better tote her back to my ole 'oman?"

"No; we are much nearer the hut than the hall, and even if it were not
so, I would not have her taken back there."

They were in fact going up the path leading to the hut on the top of the
hill. So, by dint of much lugging and tugging, and many breathless
pauses to rest, the old man succeeded in bearing his lifeless burden to
the hut.

CHAPTER XI.

THE MARTYRS OF LOVE.

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
Rather the dead, for life seemed something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not her memory; though a heavy ache
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true,
Brought back the sense of pain, without the cause,
For, for a time the furies made a pause.

--_Byron_.

So Nora's lifeless form was laid upon the bed. Old Mrs. Jones, who had
fallen asleep in her chair, was aroused by the disturbance, and stumbled
up only half awake to see what was the matter, and to offer her
assistance.

Old Jovial had modestly retired to the chimney corner, leaving the poor
girl to the personal attention of her sister.

Hannah had thrown off her shawl and bonnet, and was hastily divesting
Nora of her wet garments, when the old nurse appeared at her side.

"Oh, Mrs. Jones, is she dead?" cried the elder sister.

"No," replied the oracle, putting her warm hand upon the heart of the
patient, "only in a dead faint and chilled to the marrow of her bones,
poor heart! Whatever made her run out so in this storm? Where did you
find her? had she fallen down in a fit? What was the cause on it?" she
went on to hurry question upon question, with the vehemence of an old
gossip starving for sensation news.

"Oh, Mrs. Jones, this is no time to talk! we must do something to bring
her to life!" wept Hannah.

"That's a fact! Jovial, you good-for-nothing, lazy, lumbering nigger,
what are ye idling there for, a-toasting of your crooked black shins?
Put up the chunks and hang on the kettle directly," said the nurse with
authority.

Po