"As soon as you grow cool, you are welcome to ask me what questions you
like. The child is plainly ill. I should not wonder if she had seen
something that frightened her."

Having thus spoken, he passed from the room. I felt as if I spoke, saw,
and walked in a horrid dream. I seized the darling child in my arms, and
bore her away to her mother.

"What is it--for mercy's sake what is the matter?" she cried, growing in
an instant as pale as the poor child herself.

"I found that--that _demon_--in the parlour with the child on his lap,
staring in her face. She is manifestly terrified."

"Oh! gracious God! she is lost--she is killed," cried the poor
mother, frantically looking into the white, apathetic, meaningless
face of the child.

"Fanny, darling Fanny, tell us if you are ill," I cried, pressing the
little girl in terror to my heart.

"Tell your own mother, my darling," echoed my poor little wife. "Oh!
darling, darling child, speak to your poor mother."

It was all in vain. Still the same dilated, imploring gaze--the same pale
face--wild and dumb. We brought her to the open window--we gave her cold
water to drink--we sprinkled it in her face. We sent for the apothecary,
who lived hard by, and he arrived in a few moments, with a parcel of
tranquillising medicines. These, however, were equally unavailing.