There she lay; physical weakness conquering the strong heart: she lay, overcome at last. There was no more to bear. Had there been, I think she would have been able to have borne it still.
John took her in his arms; I know not if he took her, or Mrs. Tod gave her to him—but there she was. He carried her across the kitchen into our own little parlour, and laid her down on my sofa.
"Shut the door, Phineas. Mrs. Tod, keep everybody out. She is waking now."
She did, indeed, open her eyes, with a long sigh, but closed them again. Then with an effort she sat upright, and looked at us all around.
"Oh, my dear! my dear!" moaned Mrs. Tod, clasping her, and sobbing over her like a child. "Cry, do cry!"
"I CAN'T," she said, and lay down again.
We stood awed, watching that poor, pale face, on every line of which was written stunned, motionless, impassive grief. For John—two minutes of such a gaze as his might in a man's heart do the work of years.
"She must be roused," he said at last. "She MUST cry. Mrs. Tod, take her up-stairs. Let her look at her father."
The word effected what he desired; what almost her life demanded. She clung round Mrs. Tod's neck in torrents of weeping.
"Now, Phineas, let us go away."