"Yes, it was a pleasant face,—a prettiness of youth about it."
"Ask him,—do you hear, young lady?—ask him"; and giving me directions for the morning, he left.
Curious old doctor,—what care should he have concerning it?
The opiate, if opiate it was, that Doctor Eaton gave Miss Axtell, quickly worked its spell; for after he had gone, she scarcely noticed me; she only moaned a little, and turned her head upon the pillow, as if to ease the pain that made her face so flushed. The room was darkened; the fire upon the hearth was almost out. It didn't seem the same room as that in which I had heard my song so recently. I had nothing to do but to sit and watch,—a sad, nerve-aching woman-work, at the best. In my pocket I had put the bit of woman's wear that I had taken from the iron bar in my tower. I longed to open the closet-door, and compare it with the dress that I had seen hanging there. No opportunity came. Miss Axtell was very drowsy, if not asleep. For full three hours not a varying occurred. Where had every one gone? Was I forgotten, buried in with this sick lady out of the world? Not quite; for I heard the vitalizing charm of a footstep, followed, by the gentlest of knocks, which I rejoicingly answered. It was the brother, come to look at his sister. He walked quietly in, stood several moments looking at her face, as she lay with half the repose of sleep over it, then came to me and said,—
"She looks better."
"I am glad you think so," I replied; "she seems very ill to me. She called me Mary, when I first came in; since then she hasn't noticed me."
"She called you Mary?" he said. "Are you Mary?"
"My name is Anna," I answered.
"Then you are not Mary?"
"Of course not; I am not two."