a day。 They would whisper sentences of this sort at my bedside—
“It is very well we took her in。”
“Yes； she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning had she been left out all night。 I wonder what she has gone through？”
“Strange hardships； I imagine—poor； emaciated； pallid wanderer？”
“She is not an uneducated person； I should think； by her manner of speaking； her accent was quite pure； and the clothes she took off； though splashed and wet； were little worn and fine。”
“She has a peculiar face； fleshless and haggard as it is； I rather like it； and when in good health and animated； I can fancy her physiognomy would be agreeable。”
Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the hospitality they had extended to me； or of suspicion of； or aversion to； myself。 I was forted。
Mr。 St。 John came but once： he looked at me； and said my state of lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue。 He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor： nature； he was sure； would manage best； left to herself。 He said every nerve had been overstrained in some way； and the whole system must sleep torpid a while。 There was no disease。 He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once menced。 These opinions he delivered in a few words； in a quiet； low voice； and added； after a pause； in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive ment； “Rather an unusual physiognomy； certainly； not indicative of vulgarity or degradation。”
“Far otherwise；” responded Diana。 “To speak truth； St。 John； my heart rather warms to the poor little soul。 I wish we may be able to benefit her permanently。”
“That is hardly likely；” was the reply。 “You will find she is some young lady who