“It was now the third day since Haverleigh’s departure, and Anna had adhered to her resolution not to eat or drink, hoping thus to hasten the death she so longed for, and yet dared not achieve by rasher means. Four times a day Celine had carried her the most tempting dishes which a French cook could manufacture, and tried by signs, and gestures, and a voluble rattling of her mother tongue, to persuade her mistress to eat, or, at least, sip the delicious chocolate, or _cafe au lait_, whose perfume itself was almost meat and drink. But all in vain. Anna neither turned her head nor spoke, but lay with her face to the wall on the massive bedstead of rosewood and gilt, whose silken and lace hangings seemed to aggravate her misery. So much grandeur, so much elegance, and she so hopeless and wretched. Oh, with what wild yearnings she thought of her New England home, and the labor she had so despised. “‘Oh, mother, mother, if you only knew, but I shall never see you again. I shall die, and nobody will know. I believe I am dying now,’ she moaned, as the gnawings of hunger and thirst began to make themselves felt, and there stole over her that deathly sickness and cold, clammy sweat which so often precedes a fainting fit, or a severe attack of vomiting. ‘Yes, I’m dying and I’m glad,’ she whispered, as everything around her began to grow dark, and she seemed to be floating away on a billow of the sea. ‘No, you are not dying. You are only faint with hunger and excitement. Take a sip of this wine,’ was spoken in her ear in a pure English accent, while a cool hand was laid kindly upon her hot, throbbing head. “It was the English voice, the sound of home, which brought Anna back to consciousness, and turning herself quickly toward the speaker, she saw Madame Verwest bending over her, with a glass of spiced wine and some biscuits, at which she clutched eagerly, forgetful of her recent desire to die. The English voice had saved her, and a flood of tears rained over her young face as she glanced up at Madame Verwest, and met the same kind expression which had greeted her the first day of her arrival at Chateau d’Or. “‘Oh, you can speak English. You will help me to get away, to go home to mother? You’ll save me from him, won’t you? Why didn’t you come to me before?’ she cried; and raising herself in bed, she laid her head upon the bosom of the woman and sobbed convulsively. ‘Are you crying, too? Crying for me?’ she asked, as she felt the hot tears falling upon her hair, and drawing herself a little from Madame Verwest, she gazed at her in astonishment, for every feature was convulsed with emotion, and the tears were running down her pallid cheeks. “‘What is it? Are you a prisoner? Does he say you are crazy like me? Who are you, and why are you in this dreadful place?’ Anna asked, and then Madame was herself again, and answered, calmly: