And it comes to pass, that there falls a day when these sick fancies pass--when the pain and breathlessness pass--and when Esther lies in utter exhaustion, weak as a day-old babe, whiter than any Annunciation lily, between her sheets. Eyes and ears and power of touch are still hers: but it seems as though all objects of sensation, of sight and sound and touch, reach her only through a thick blanket. She can see, as if at an immense distance off, shrouded in mist, the faces of doctor and nurse as they lean over her, and then, turning away, whisper together. She cannot hear what they say; she has no wish to hear--she has no wish for anything; only she lies, staring, with great eyes, straight before her at the bed-hangings, at the ceiling, at the little countless pigeon-holes in her toilet-table. One of the windows is open; and heaven's sweet breath circulates fresh and slow through the quiet room. It is Sunday; the village people are clustering about the church-door; the violets, like blue eyes that have slept through winter's night, are opening under the churchyard wall. The bells are ringing; now, loud and clear--"ding-dong bell! ding-dong bell!" almost as if they were being rung in the still chamber itself--they come; now, faint and far; the wind has caught the sound in his rough hand, and carried it otherwhither. Whether they ring loud or faint, whether they ring or ring not at all, she has no care; she has no care for anything. She is very weary: it seems as if there were but a faint life-spark left in her; she can scarce lift her hand to her head. Now and then they raise her up, and, without asking her consent, pour brandy and beef-tea down her reluctant throat. She is _so_ tired! Oh! why cannot they leave her alone! The slow hours roll themselves round; the people have gone into church, and have come out again. Mr. Brand is here still; he is entering at the door; he is leaning over her. What can he have to say that he must needs look so solemn over? "My dear Miss Craven," he begins, with slow distinctness, as if he imagined that her illness had carried away her powers of hearing, "Mr. Winter is here; would not you like to see him?" Mr. Winter is the meek M.A., whose voice the old squire drowns. She fixes her great eyes, "Yet larger through her leanness," upon his face--wondering as a child's just opened upon this strange green world. "I--why should I?" she asks, in a faint astonished whisper. She cannot speak above a whisper. The good man looks embarrassed. "You are very ill," he says, indirectly. "Am I?" "And people in your situation generally wish for the holy offices of a minister of the Church." "Do they?" She is too feeble to join one link to another in the simplest chain of reasoning. She has failed to grasp his meaning. He looks baffled, uneasy.