"Oh merciful God!" I cried, half furious, half terrified—"You have injured her—you have terrified her. Give me my child—give her to me."
These words I absolutely shouted, and stamped upon the floor in my horrid excitement.
"Pooh, pooh!" he said, with a sort of ugly sneer; "the child is nervous—you'll make her more so—be quiet and she'll probably find her tongue presently. I have had her on my knee some minutes, but the sweet bird could not tell what ails her."
"Let the child go," I shouted in a voice of thunder; "let her go, I say—let her go."
He took the passive, death-like child, and placed her standing by the window, and rising, he simply said—
"As soon as you grow cool, you are welcome to ask me what questions you like. The child is plainly ill. I should not wonder if she had seen something that frightened her."
Having thus spoken, he passed from the room. I felt as if I spoke, saw, and walked in a horrid dream. I seized the darling child in my arms, and bore her away to her mother.
"What is it—for mercy's sake what is the matter?" she cried, growing in an instant as pale as the poor child herself.
"I found that—that demon—in the parlour with the child on his lap, staring in her face. She is manifestly terrified."
"Oh! gracious God! she is lost—she is killed," cried the poor mother, frantically looking into the white, apathetic, meaningless face of the child.