“That’s the place,” said he.
He then turned, without replying to my thanks, and left me. I knocked at the door. After some delay it was opened, and I went in. A thin, pale woman was there. Her hair was perfectly white. Her face was marked by the traces of great grief and suffering, yet overspread by an expression of surpassing gentleness and sweetness. She looked like one of these women who live lives of devotion for others, who suffer out of the spirit of self-sacrifice, and count their own comfort and happiness as nothing in comparison with that of those whom they love. My heart warmed toward her at the first glance; I saw that this place could not be altogether corrupt since she was here.
“I am Mr. Potts’s daughter,” said I; “are you Mrs. Compton?”
She stood mute. An expression of deadly fear overspread her countenance, which seemed to turn her white face to a grayish hue, and the look that she gave me was such a look as one may cast upon some object of mortal fear.
“You look alarmed,” said I, in surprise; “and why? Am I then so frightful?”
She seized my hand and covered it with kisses. This new outburst surprised me as much as her former fear. I did not know what to do. “Ah! my sweet child, my dearest!” she murmured. “How did you come here, here of all places on earth?”
I was touched by the tenderness and sympathy of her tone. It was full of the gentlest love. “How did you come here?” I asked.
She started and turned on me her former look of fear.
“Do not look at me so,” said I, “dear Mrs. Compton. You are timid. Do not be afraid of me. I am incapable of inspiring fear.” I pressed her hand. “Let us say nothing more now about the place. We each seem to know what it is. Since I find one like you living here it will not seem altogether a place of despair.”
“Oh, door child, what words are these? You speak as if you knew all.”