When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the wrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress, and blubbering—­

’I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such a devil; and I’ll never call you a name, but Maud—­my darling Maud.’

’You must, Milly—­Mrs. Bustle.  I’ll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like.  You must.’  I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, I wonder how we kept our feet.

So Milly and I were better friends than ever.

Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights, and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh.  I was frightened at the frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject.  I did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Milly’s way of talking about them.

But one day, while in one of his ‘queerish’ states, he called for me, and I saw him, and was unspeakably scared.

In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair.  I should have thought him dead, had I not been accompanied by old L’Amour, who knew every gradation and symptom of these strange affections.

She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered—­

‘Don’t make no noise, miss, till he talks; he’ll come to for a bit, anon.’

Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions.

There was a frown and smirk like that of idiotcy, and a strip of white eyeball was also disclosed.

Suddenly, with a kind of chilly shudder, he opened his eyes wide, and screwed his lips together, and blinked and stared on me with a fatuised uncertainty, that gradually broke into a feeble smile.

’Ah! the girl—­Austin’s child.  Well, dear, I’m hardly able—­I’ll speak to-morrow—­next day—­it is tic—­neuralgia, or something—­torture—­tell her.’

So, huddling himself together, he lay again in his great chair, with the same inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, and gradually his face resumed its dreadful cast.

’Come away, miss:  he’s changed his mind; he’ll not be fit to talk to you noways all day, maybe,’ said the old woman, again in a whisper.

So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked.  In fact, he looked as if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I told the crone, who, forgetting the ceremony with which she usually treated me, chuckled out derisively,

’A-dying is he?  Well, he be like Saint Paul—­he’s bin a-dying daily this many a day.’

I looked at her with a chill of horror.  She did not care, I suppose, what sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcastically to herself.  I had paused, and overcame my reluctance to speak to her again, for I was really very much frightened.  ’Do you think he is in danger?  Shall we send for a doctor?’ I whispered.