“Don’t you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm,” said Percivale, “and then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that way.”
We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the place neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered on her pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the keep, with light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still expectation, that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep after receiving an answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known sonnet of Wordsworth’s, in which he describes as the type of Death—
“the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely beauty in a summer grave.”
[Footnote: Miscellaneous Sonnets, part i.28.]
But she heard our steps, and her face awoke.
“Is mamma come?”
“Yes, my darling. I am here,” said her mother. “How do you feel?”
“Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!”
“One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale.”
We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her a little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the bandage from her head.