loss. In delirious visions she saw her grandfather now struggling in
the grasp of Phlegyas, and now writhing in the fiery tomb of Uberti,
with jets of flame leaping through his white hair, and his shrunken
hands stretched appealingly toward her, as she had seen those of the
doomed Ghibelline leader, in the hideous Dante picture. All the
appalling images evoked by the sombre and embittered imagination of
the gloomy Tuscan had seized upon her fancy, even in happy hours,
and were now reproduced by her disordered brain in multitudinous and
aggravated forms. Her wails of agony, her passionate prayers to God
to release the beloved spirit from the tortures which her delirium
painted, were painful beyond expression to those who watched her
ravings; and it was with a feeling of relief that they finally saw
her sink into apathy--into a quiet mental stupor--from which nothing
seemed to rouse her. She did not remark Mrs. Hunt's absence, or the
presence of the neighbors at her bedside. And one morning, when she
was wrapped up and placed by the fire, Mrs. Wood told her as gently
as possible that her grandmother had died from a disease which was
ravaging the country and supposed to be cholera. The intelligence
produced no emotion; she merely looked up an instant, glanced
mournfully around the dreary room, and, shivering slightly, drooped
her head again on her hand. Week after week went slowly by, and she
was removed to Mrs. Wood's house, but no improvement was
discernible, and the belief became general that the child's mind had
sunk into hopeless imbecility. The kind-hearted miller and his wife
endeavored to coax her out of her chair by the chimney-corner, but
she crouched there, a wan, mute figure of woe, pitiable to
contemplate; asking no questions, causing no trouble, receiving no
consolation. One bright March morning she sat, as usual, with her
face bowed on her thin hand, and her vacant gaze fixed on the
blazing fire, when, through the open window, came the impatient