Dr. Tatham gently pushed open the door. The cottage consisted, in fact, of but one room, and that a very small one, and lit by only one little window. The floor was clean, and evidently just fresh sanded. On a wooden stool, opposite a fireplace, on which a small saucepan was placed, sat a girl about twelve years old, (a daughter of the woman who lived nearest,) crumbling some bread into a basin, with some broth in it. On a narrow bed against the wall, opposite the window, was to be seen the somewhat remarkable figure of the solitary old tenant of the cottage. She was sitting up, resting against the pillow, which was placed on end against the wall. She was evidently a very tall woman; and her long, brown, wrinkled, shrivelled face, with prominent cheekbones and bushy white eyebrows, betokened the possession, in earlier days, of a most masculine expression of features. Her hair, white as snow, was gathered back from her forehead, under a spreading plain white cap; and her sightless eyes, wide open, stared forward with a startling and somewhat sinister expression. She was wrapped round in a clean white bedgown; and her long thin arms lay straight before her on the outside of the bedclothes. Her lips were moving, as if she were talking to herself. "She's a strange-looking object, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, as he and Dr. Tatham stood watching her for a few moments in silence. "Dame! dame!" said the doctor, loudly, approaching her bedside, "how are you to-day? It's Christmas-day--I wish you a merry Christmas." "Ay, ay--merry, merry!" echoed the old woman, with a half-groan. "More the merrier! I've seen a hundred and nine of them!" "You seem comfortable enough, dame," said Mr. Aubrey, kindly. "I hope you _are_?" "They won't give me my broth--my broth," said she, peevishly. "It's coming, granny," called out the shrill voice of the girl sitting before the fire, quickening her motions. "Here's the squire come to see you, dame, and he wishes you a happy Christmas," said Dr. Tatham, loudly. "What! the squire? Alive yet? Ah, well-a-day! well-a-day!" said she, in a feeble, mournful tone, slowly rubbing together her long, skinny, wrinkled hands, on the backs of which the veins stood out like knotted whipcord. She repeated the last words several times, in a truly doleful tone, gently shaking her head. "Granny's been very sad, sir, to-day, and cried two or three times," said the little girl, stirring about the hot broth. "Poor squire! doth he not look sad?" inquired the old woman. "Why should I, dame? What have I to fear?" said Mr. Aubrey, somewhat quickly. "Merry in the Hall! all, merry! merry! But no one has heard it except old blind Bess. Where's the squire?" she added, suddenly turning full towards the spot where they were standing--and her face seemed whitened with emotion. Her staring eyes were settled on Mr. Aubrey's face, as if she saw him distinctly, and were reading his very soul.