As it seemed, she did not perceive my presence. Her eyes were transfixed
and fascinated. She did not even seem to me to breathe. Horror and
anguish at last overcame my stupefaction.

"What--what is it?" I cried; "what ails my child, my darling child?"

"I'd be glad to know, myself," he replied, coolly; "it is certainly
something very queer."

"What is it, darling?" I repeated, frantically, addressing the child.

"What is it?" he reiterated. "Why it's pretty plain, I should suppose,
that the child is ill."

"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--