'Something happened—something dreadful—what was it—oh, what was it?' asked Dulcie, putting her hands to her throbbing temples.
'Drink, dear,' said the curate again.
She drank of the coffee thirstily; but declined the bread.
'I beat up an egg in the coffee,' said he; 'I feared you might be unable to eat yet.'
Her blue eyes began to lose their wandering and troubled look, and to become less wild and wistful; then suddenly a shrill cry escaped her, and she said, with a calmness more terrible and painful than fainting or hysterics:
'Oh, I remember now—papa—poor papa—dead! Found dead! Oh, my God! help me to bear it, or take me too—take me too!'
'Do not speak thus, child,' said Mr. Pentreath gently.
'How long ago was it—yesterday—a month ago, or when? I seem—I feel as if I had grown quite old, yet you all look just the same—just the same; how is this?'
'My child,' said the curate, with dim eyes, 'your dire calamity happened but a short time ago—little more than an hour since.'
Her response was a deep and heavy sob, that seemed to come from her overcharged heart rather than her slender throat, and which was the result of the unnatural tension of her mind.