"Thee is deadly pale, Christie."
"I am cold," she said, with a shiver; "nothing more."
"And wet through," said Uncle Reuben, sorrowfully. "We must stop at the first house we meet, and get some dry clothes, and some breakfast."
"No, no; you must not stop; there is no time to lose. Pray, go on," said Christie, in alarm.
"Thee must take time," said Uncle Reuben, firmly, looking straight at Willard. "Thee will hardly live to see Westport, else. Does thee want to die a suicide, Christie?"
"He speaks truly, dearest—we must stop at the nearest farm-house," said Willard, bending over her. "My poor Christie, you do indeed look jaded to death," he added, sorrowfully.
"It is nothing, Willard. If I only reach Westport in time, I care for nothing else."
"But I do, Christie. I want you after that to hurry and get well, and come with me to Italy, to far-off, beautiful Italy, where our lives will be happy as a fairy-tale."
She lifted her large, lustrous blue eyes to his face, with along, steady gaze—the calm, far-seeing gaze of a soul lingering on the verge of eternity. How plainly those mournful eyes said "Too late! too late!" But she did not speak; she only smiled faintly, and then sank wearily back, with her head shrouded in her mantle once more.
The white hands of morning were now fast pushing aside the clouds of night. As they went on they encountered one or two laborers, with spades on their shoulders, going to their daily toil, who stared at them with lackluster eyes, as if they thought them ghosts. At the end of half an hour they reached a comfortable-looking farmhouse, and alighted at the outer gate. Willard lifted Christie out in his arms, while Uncle Reuben, with his whip, kept off the dogs that ran out, barking loudly. The noise brought the farmer himself to the door, who, noticing the drooping form of Christie, and the pale, worn face of her companions, cordially invited them to enter.