Late that evening—after Mrs. Corder had given her children their supper, and sent them to their beds up in the attic, and had closed up her shop for the night—she came up-stairs and paused for a moment on the first landing to listen at Eudora’s chamber door. Hearing her breathe deeply, like one soundly sleeping, the landlady nodded and smiled confidentially to herself, murmuring:
“Ah, ha! she is sleeping like a baby, the poor, dear, motherless child!—sleeping like an innocent infant baby without a trouble in the world, thanks be to the laudamy drops as I put into her tea-cup, and to Him as made the poppy grow for the sake of sorrowful mortals; for if it hadn’t a’ been for that, sure she’d a’ gone mad to-night instead o’ going peaceably to sleep. Well, laudamy is a blessing for which we should be thankful, as well I know as I would a’ gone crazy the night Corder died if so be the medical man hadn’t a given me laudamy drops!”
So saying, and being perfectly satisfied with the result of her own medical experience, good Mrs. Corder glided noiselessly up the second pair of stairs, and paused again upon the second landing.
Seeing a light shine through a half-open door, she, without the ceremony of knocking, entered a fireless and cheerless bed-chamber, where a young girl of about fifteen years of age sat reading by the light of a farthing candle.
Mrs. Corder sat her own candle down upon the chest of drawers, and dropped into a chair to recover her breath, while she gazed with interest and curiosity upon the young girl who was so absorbed in the perusal of her book as not to notice the entrance of the landlady.
No one—not even the most careless observer—could have looked upon that girl with indifference. Her form was slight and fragile, and her face pale and thin from that unmistakable emaciation which attends a slow starvation—a slow starvation that saps life as surely as a slow poison. Yet, withal, the character of her face was full of spirit, courage, and even mischief. Her bright brown hair rippled back from a full round, white forehead, and flowed down her shoulders in wavelets that were golden in the light and bronze in the shade. Her eyebrows, of a darker hue, were depressed towards the root of her nose, and elevated towards the temples, giving a peculiarly arch expression to her large, clear, gray eyes, that, fringed with their long, thick lashes, might otherwise have seemed too thoughtful and melancholy for one so young. Her slightly turned-up nose, and short upper lip and rounded chin, were also full of that expression of archness which seemed the natural characteristic of her face. For the rest, she wore a faded light gray dress, without any addition except a white linen collar.
When Mrs. Corder had watched her for about a minute, she called her attention by saying:
“Miss Annella!”
The young girl started, and looked up, and with a laugh exclaimed,
“Oh, Mrs. Corder, is that you? How you startled me! bringing me so suddenly down from dream-land to sober earth. I feel as if I had fallen from a balloon, and struck the ground in a very damp, cold marsh.”