"Nothing for me--I am dying," said the woman, in a husky, hollow voice. "Nothing for me; nothing for me." "Oh, mamma! oh, mamma!" screamed the child, passionately. "Oh, not dying! Oh, mamma!" "Oh, Georgia, hush!" said the woman, turning restlessly. "Don't shriek so, child; I cannot bear it." But Georgia, who seemed to have no sort of self-control, or any other sort of control, still continued to scream her wild, passionate cry, "Oh, not dying! oh, mamma!" until Miss Jerusha, losing all patience, caught her arm in a vise-like grip, and, giving her a furious shake, said, in a deep, stern whisper: "You little limb! Do you want to kill your mother? Hold your tongue, afore I shake the life out of you!" The words had the effect of stilling the little tempest before her, who crouched into the corner and buried her face in her hands. "Poor Georgia! poor little thing! what will become of her when I am gone?" said the sufferer, while a spasm of intense pain shot across her haggard face. "The Lord will provide," said Miss Jerusha, rolling up the whites, or, more properly speaking, the yellows of her eyes. "Don't take on about that. Tell me how you came to be here! But first let me give you a drink. You look as if you needed something to keep life in you. Wait a minute." Miss Jerusha's hawk-like eye went roving round the room until it alighted on a little tin cup. Seizing this, she filled it with the currant wine she had brought, and held it to the sick woman's lips. Eagerly she drank, and then Miss Jerusha folded the shawl more closely around her, and, sitting down on the floor, drew her head upon her lap, and, with a touch that was almost tender, smoothed back the heavy locks of her dark hair. "Now, then," she said, "tell me all about it." "You are very kind," said the sick woman, looking up gratefully. "I feared I should die all alone here. I sent my little boy to the nearest house in search of help, but he has not yet returned." "Ah! you're a widder, I suppose?" said Miss Jerusha, trying to keep down a pang of remorse and dread, as she thought of the child she had so cruelly turned out into the bitter storm. "Yes, I have been a widow for the last seven years. My name is Alice Randall Darrell." "And hain't you got no friends nor nothin', Mrs. Darrell, when you come to this old place, not fit for pigs, let alone human Christians?" "No; no friends--not one friend in all this wide world," said the dying woman, in a tone so utterly despairing that Miss Jerusha's hand fell soothingly and pityingly on her forehead. "Sho, now, sho! I want ter know," said Miss Jerusha, quite unconscious that she was making rhyme, a species of literature she had the profoundest contempt for. "That's _too_ bad, 'clare if it ain't! Are they all dead?" "I do not know--they are all dead to me." "Why, what on airth hed you done to them?" said Miss Jerusha, in surprise. "I married against my father's consent."