"I am afraid, Miss Haye, you will be ill," said poor Mrs.
Nettley.
"I am willing," — said Elizabeth. "I don't care about anything, but to be quiet! —"
Mrs. Nettley went off in despair; and Elizabeth in despair also, found that vexation had effectually driven away sleep. In vain the locust sang and the moss smelled sweet; the tide of feeling had made head again, and back came a rush of disagreeable things, worse after worse; till Elizabeth's brow quitted the moss pillow to be buried in her hands, and her half-quieted spirit shook anew with the fresh-raised tempest. Exhaustion came back again; and thankfully she once more laid herself down to sleep and forgetfulness.
Her sleep was sound this time. The body asserted its rights; and long, long she lay still upon her moss pillow, while the regular deep-drawn breath came and went, fetching slow supplies of strength and refreshment. The sun quitted its overhead position and dipped towards Wut-a-qut-o, behind the high brow of which, in summer-time, it used to hide itself. A slant ray found an opening in the thick tree-tops, and shone full upon Elizabeth's face; but it failed to rouse her; and it soon went up higher and touched a little song sparrow that was twittering in a cedar tree close by. Then the shadows of the trees fell long over the grass towards the rocks on the east.
Elizabeth was awakened at last by a familiar adjuration.
"Miss 'Lizabeth! — you'll catch a Typhus, or an agur, or somethin' dreadful, down there! Don't ye want to live no more in the world?"
Elizabeth sat up, and rested her face on her knees, feeling giddy and sick.
"Don't ye feel bad?"
"Hush, Clam! —"
"I'm sent after ye," said Clam, — "I dursn't hush. Folks thinks it is time you was back in the house."