She was still in this unconscious state, and apparently as free from suffering as from enjoyment, when a new voice was suddenly heard without, exclaiming, “Oh where is she? where is she? where is my dear Miss Beverley?” and Henrietta Belfield ran wildly into the room. The advertisement in the news-papers had at once brought her to town, and directed her to the house: the mention that the lost lady _talked much of a person by the name of Delvile_, struck her instantly to mean Cecilia; the description corresponded with this idea, and the account of the dress confirmed it: Mr Arnott, equally terrified with herself, had therefore lent her his chaise to learn the truth of this conjecture, and she had travelled all night. Flying up to the bedside, “Who is this?” she cried, “this is not Miss Beverley?” and then screaming with unrestrained horror, “Oh mercy! mercy!” she called out, “yes, it is indeed! and nobody would know her!--her own mother would not think her her child!” “You must come away, Miss Belfield,” said Mary, “you must indeed,--the doctors all say my lady must not be disturbed.” “Who shall take me away?” cried she, angrily, “nobody Mary! not all the doctors in the world! Oh sweet Miss Beverley! I will lie down by your side,--I will never quit you while you live,--and I wish, I wish I could die to save your precious life!” Then, leaning over her, and wringing her hands, “Oh I shall break my heart,” she cried, “to see her in this condition! Is this the so happy Miss Beverley, that I thought every body born to give joy to? the Miss Beverley that seemed queen of the whole world! yet so good and so gentle, so kind to the meanest person! excusing every body's faults but her own, and telling them how they might mend, and trying to make them as good as herself!--Oh who would know her! who would know her! what have they done to you, my beloved Miss Beverley? how have they altered and disfigured you in this wicked and barbarous manner?” In the midst of this simple yet pathetic testimony, to the worth and various excellencies of Cecilia, Dr Lyster came into the room. The women all flocked around him, except Mary, to vindicate themselves from any share in permitting this new comer's entrance and behaviour; but Mary only told him who she was, and said, that if her lady was well enough to know her, there was nobody she was certain she would have been so glad to see. “Young lady,” said the doctor, “I would advise you to walk into another room till you are a little more composed.” “Every body, I find, is for hurrying me away,” cried the sobbing Henrietta, whose honest heart swelled with its own affectionate integrity; “but they might all save themselves the trouble, for go I will not!” “This is very wrong,” said the doctor, “and must not be suffered: do you call it friendship to come about a sick person in this manner?”