again with the fixed, almost vacant look which made him begin to doubt
whether her reason had not suffered.

"No, no, no," cried she, gasping for breath; "I can't stay here. I know,
I know you wouldn't come back. If you once got out, got outside in the
air, you would go back to your home, and I should be left
here--alone--with the rats--and--_that_!"

And again she pointed to the curtained door.

Max felt his teeth chattering as he tried to reassure her.

"Come, won't you trust me? I'll only be a minute. I want to get you some
brandy."

"Brandy? No. I dare not."

And she shook her head. But Max persisted.

"Nonsense--you must have it. There's a public-house at the corner, of
course. Come out on to the wharf, if you like and wait for me."

It was pitiful to see the expression of her eyes as she looked in his
face without a word. She was leaning back in the wooden arm-chair, one
hand lying in her lap, the other hanging limply over the side of the
chair. Her hair, which had been fastened in a coil at the back of her
head, had been loosened in the fall, and now drooped about her head and
face in disorder, which increased her pathetic beauty. And it was at
this point that Max noticed, with astonishment, that her hands, though
not specially beautiful or small or in any way remarkable, were not