“What is it?” said the old man, looking up from my face, “what is it? a human soul almost leaving the body—a child’s soul! What is it?—don’t you see, woman?”
“Is it dying? can it speak?” was the rejoinder.
The old man lifted me in his arms without answering, and laid my head on his shoulder. A strange gush of pleasure came over me, and my soul seemed melting away in tears—silent, quiet tears, for I was too feeble for noisy emotions. I stole one arm around his neck, and nestled my cheek close to his. Was the action familiar to the old man? With me it was natural as the infant’s habit of lifting its hands to the mother’s mouth, that it may gather her kisses.
He did not return the caress, but almost dropped me from his arms. His bosom heaved, some exclamation that he seemed about to utter broke into a groan, and directly I felt tears running down the cheek that touched mine.
“Why, what are you about, Mr. Turner? What on earth are you thinking of? Don’t you see how forlorn and ragged the creature is, and holding it against your new mourning, what has come over you?” exclaimed the housemaid, horrified and astonished.
The old man made no reply, but looked searchingly down on my old frock, as if it had some deep interest to him.
“Very well, every one to his own business,” cried the housemaid, resenting his silence, “you hug that little witch as if it was your own—ha, ha, who knows!—who knows! oh, if my lord could but see you!”
The old man had been holding up a fold of my frock during this speech, and was still intently examining the soiled embroidery. His thin face writhed and twitched in all its features; but when he dropped the fold, it settled into an expression of distressing certainty.
The old man looked on her with mournful sternness.
“Before heaven, I wish he could see us—his old servant, and—and—tush! woman, go about your work—go all!”