sick woman.

Sick persons must be amused: and Tilda, after trying the patient
unsuccessfully with a few jokes from the _repertoire_ of her own
favourite clown, had fallen back upon "I love my love"--about the only
game known to her that dispensed with physical exertion.

"Sleepin', are you? . . . Well, I'll chance it and go on. I 'ate 'im
because he's 'aughty--or 'igh-born, if you like--"

The figure beneath the bedclothes did not stir. Tilda lifted herself an
inch higher on the elbow; lifted her voice too as she went on:

"And I'll take 'im to--'OLMNESS--"

She had been watching, expecting some effect. But it scared her when,
after a moment, the woman raised herself slowly, steadily, until
half-erect from the waist. A ray of the afternoon sun fell slantwise
from one of the high windows, and, crossed by it, her eyes blazed like
lamps in their sockets.

"--And feed 'im on 'am!" concluded Tilda hurriedly, slipping down within
her bedclothes and drawing them tight about her. For the apparition was
stretching out a hand. The hand drew nearer.

"It's--it's a name came into my 'ead," quavered the child.

"Who . . . told . . . you?" The fingers of the hand had hooked
themselves like a bird's claw.