ll break down, if I try to say more.

In a few moments the black bonnet and the crutch-stick were on duty, the
good Jew was left in possession of the house, and the dolls' dressmaker,
side by side in a chaise with Mortimer Lightwood, was posting out of
town.

Chapter 10

THE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER DISCOVERS A WORD

A darkened and hushed room; the river outside the windows flowing on
to the vast ocean; a figure on the bed, swathed and bandaged and bound,
lying helpless on its back, with its two useless arms in splints at its
sides. Only two days of usage so familiarized the little dressmaker
with this scene, that it held the place occupied two days ago by the
recollections of years.

He had scarcely moved since her arrival. Sometimes his eyes were open,
sometimes closed. When they were open, there was no meaning in their
unwinking stare at one spot straight before them, unless for a moment
the brow knitted into a faint expression of anger, or surprise. Then,
Mortimer Lightwood would speak to him, and on occasions he would be so
far roused as to make an attempt to pronounce his friend's name. But, in
an instant consciousness was gone again, and no spirit of Eugene was in
Eugene's crushed outer form.

They provided Jenny with materials for plying her work, and she had a
little table placed at the foot of his bed. Sitting there, with her rich
shower of hair falling over the chair-back, they hoped she might attract
his notice. With the same object, she would sing, just above her breath,
when he opened his eyes, or she saw his brow knit into that faint
expression, so evanescent that it was like a shape made in water. But
as yet he had not heeded. The 'they' here mentioned were the medical
attendant; Lizzie, who was there in all her intervals of rest; and
Lightwood, who never left him.

The two days became three, and the three days became four. At length,
quite unexpectedly, he said something in a whisper.

'What was it, my dear Eugene?'

'Will you, Mortimer--'

'Will I--?

--'Send for her?'

'My dear fellow, she is here.'

Quite unconscious of the long blank, he supposed that they were still
speaking together.

The little dressmaker stood up at the foot of the bed, humming her song,
and nodded to him brightly. 'I can't shake hands, Jenny,' said Eugene,
with something of his old look; 'but I am very glad to see you.'

Mortimer repeated this to her, for it could only be made out by bending
over him and clo