"It is a woman, Claude!" cried Hyacinth; and then a faint moan fell on their ears.
Hastening to the spot, she pushed aside the trailing eglantines. There lay a girl, apparently not much older than herself, fair of face, with a profusion of beautiful fair hair lying tangled on the ground. Hyacinth bent over her.
"Are you ill?" she asked. But no answer came from the white lips. "Claude," cried Hyacinth, "she is dying! Make haste; get some help for her!"
"Let us see what is the matter first," he said.
The sound of voices roused the prostrate girl. She sat up, looking wildly around her, and flinging her hair from her face; then she turned to the young girl, who was looking at her with such gentle, wistful compassion.
"Are you ill?" repeated Hyacinth. "Can we do any thing to help you?"
The girl seemed to gather herself together with a convulsive shudder, as though mortal cold had seized her.
"No, I thank you," she said. "I am not ill. I am only dying by inches—dying of misery and bad treatment."
It was such a weary young face that was raised to them. It looked so ghastly, so wretched, in the morning sunlight, that Hyacinth and Claude were both inexpressibly touched. Though she was poorly clad, and her thin, shabby clothes were wet with dew, and stained by the damp grass, still there was something about the girl that spoke of gentle culture.
Claude bent down, looking kindly on the dreary young face.