ot,
and groan, and cry "There goes the wretch that murdered the
child?" I fell on my knees; it seemed as if there was a sound
of footsteps behind me--a shout of execration in my ears. It
wan a waking nightmare; I was growing delirious, and when I
felt something touch me, and a warm breath on my shoulders, I
gave a piercing scream, and fell with my face on the ground. A
low moaning roused me from this state. I looked up and saw my
great Newfoundland dog, who always slept in my room; he was
licking my hands and neck. His kind eyes were looking at me
from under the rough hair that shaded them; and he moaned
gently as he did so. I was still _almost_ a child, for I
suppose that none but a child would have found comfort in this
creature's mute sympathy. As it was, I flung my arms wildly
round its neck, and sobbed. He did not struggle, but patiently
stood there, though my tears were falling fast on his head.
"Poor, poor Hector I you never will be told what I have done;
you never will turn away from me with horror, though all the
world should do so. Poor, poor Hector! my good, my kind dog!"
This little incident had done me good, and the tears I had
shed had relieved me. I dressed myself, and when my aunt
entered my room at her return from the funeral--when she
embraced me with much emotion--when she told me how she and my
uncle had hoped that I might have slept over the last trying
hour--when she tenderly reproached me for having left my
bed--when she drew me to her, and, parting the hair that hung
loosely and heavily on my forehead, laid her cold hand upon
it, and then pressed me to her bosom--I felt a relief that for
the moment _almost_ resembled joy. Under the influence of this
momentary reaction I followed her to the dining-room, where we
found my uncle sitting in mournful silence; he pressed my hand
as I approached him, and we all sat down to eat, or try to
eat, the breakfast prepared for us. This melancholy meal over,
I withdrew to the furthest end of the drawing-room, and sat
down at my embroidery frame, which stood near to an open
window, and began to work with something like composure. From
this moment everything about us resumed its former aspect, and
the habits of our daily life seemed to have experienced
scarcely any change. My uncle's reserve and gloom were,
perhaps, somewhat deeper than before; and Mrs. Middleton at
times gave way to uncontrollable bursts of grief; but her
elastic spirit, bowed down for awhile