s pretty plain, I should suppose,
that the child is ill."

"Oh merciful God!" I cried, half furious, half terrified--"You have
injured her--you have terrified her. Give me my child--give her to me."

These words I absolutely shouted, and stamped upon the floor in my horrid
excitement.

"Pooh, pooh!" he said, with a sort of ugly sneer; "the child is
nervous--you'll make her more so--be quiet and she'll probably find her
tongue presently. I have had her on my knee some minutes, but the sweet
bird could not tell what ails her."

"Let the child go," I shouted in a voice of thunder; "let her go, I
say--let her go."

He took the passive, death-like child, and placed her standing by the
window, and rising, he simply said--

"As soon as you grow cool, you are welcome to ask me what questions you
like. The child is plainly ill. I should not wonder if she had seen
something that frightened her."

Having thus spoken, he passed from the room. I felt as if I spoke, saw,
and walked in a horrid dream. I seized the darling child in my arms, and
bore her away to her mother.

"What is it--for mercy's sake what is the matter?" she cried, growing in
an instant as pale as the poor child herself.

"I found that--that _demon_--in the parlour with the child on his lap,
staring in her face. She is manifestly terrified."

"Oh! gracious God! she is lost--she is killed," cried the poor
mother, frantically looking into the white, apathetic, meaningless
face of the child.

"Fanny, darling Fanny, tell us if you are ill," I cried, pressing the
little girl in terror to my heart.

"Tell your own mother, my darling," echoed my poor little wife. "Oh!
darling, darling child, speak to your poor mother."

It was all in vain. Still the same dilated, imploring gaze--the same pale
face--wild and dumb. We brought her to the open window--we gave her cold
water to drink--we sprinkled it in her face. We sent for the apothecary,
who lived hard by, and he arrived in a few moments, with a parcel of
tranquillising medicines. These, however, were equally unavailing.

Hour after hour passed away. The darling child looked upon us as if she
would have given the world to speak to us, or to weep, but she uttered no
sound. Now and then she drew a long breath as though preparing to say
something, but still she was mute. She often put her hand to her throat,
as if there was some pain or obstruction there.

I never can, while I live, lose one line of that mour