“Starving?—what horrible words! Why, no one starves on this estate.”
Turner did not listen. He was looking down into my face, his countenance stirring as one who ponders over a painful subject. I lay feebly in his arms, contented as a lamb, my little heart beating tenderly against his bosom. At last he carried me out into the open air.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A PARADISE OF REST.
Turner walked fast, without speaking, till the shadow of some tall trees fell over us, then his step grew heavier, and he looked in my face from time to time, with an expression of strange tenderness.
“Do you remember me?” he said at last, but in a hesitating whisper.
I struggled hard with my weakness, and tried to think. “Speak, little one, we are all alone, don’t be afraid of me, old Turner you know.”
“Yes, yes,” I murmured faintly enough, “she called you Turner.”
“She! what she are you talking of, little one?”
“The tall lady up yonder with the dog,” I answered; for struggle as I would, my mind refused to go farther back.
He looked at me with a strange expression.