"I am going to eat
it all." She tried to draw the things near her with her fingers, and
re-arranged the plates. She cut the toast into long strips, broke open
both eggs, put a tiny morsel of bread into her own mouth, and fed the
dog with pieces of meat put into his jaws with her fingers.

"Is it twelve o'clock yet?" she said; "I think I do not generally eat so
early. Put it away, please, carefully--no, do not take it away--only on
the table. When the clock strikes twelve I will eat it."

She lay down trembling. After a little while she said:

"Give me my clothes."

He looked at her.

"Yes; I am going to dress tomorrow. I should get up now, but it is
rather late. Put them on that chair. My collars are in the little box,
my boots behind the door."

Her eyes followed him intently as he collected the articles one by one,
and placed them on the chair as she directed.

"Put it nearer," she said, "I cannot see it;" and she lay watching the
clothes, with her hand under her cheek.

"Now open the shutter wide," she said; "I am going to read."

The old, old tone was again in the sweet voice. He obeyed her; and
opened the shutter, and raised her up among the pillows.

"Now bring my books to me," she said, motioning eagerly with her
fingers; "the large book, and the reviews and the plays--I want them
all."

He piled them round her on the bed; she drew them greedily closer, her
eyes very bright, but her face as white as a mountain lily.

"Now the big one off the drawers. No, you need not help me to hold my
book," she said; "I can hold it for myself."

Gregory went back to his corner, and for a little time the restless
turning over of leaves was to be heard.

"Will you open the window," she said, almost querulously, "and throw
this book out? It is so utterly foolish. I thought it was a valuable
book; but the words are merely strung together, they make no sense.
Yes--so!" she said with approval, seeing him fling it out into the
street. "I must have been very foolish when I thought that book good."

Then she turned to read, and leaned her little elbows resolutely on the
great volume, and knit her brows. This was Shakespeare--it must mean
something.

"I wish you would take a handkerchief and tie it tight round my head, it
aches so."

He had not been long in his seat when he saw drops fall from beneath the
hands that shaded the eyes, on to the page.

"I am not accustomed to so much light, it makes my head swim a li