“Nothing more,” cried the child. “Don’t you think I have a little heart, godmamma? If she felt it so, could I go poking at her with that Countess’s name? Ah! you should have seen her. She thawed out as if the sun was shining and the frost gone.” “Ah!” I cried again. It went to my heart as well. “Come down and talk, little Sara,” said I, and so went back to the drawing room, where she sat looking so eased and relieved, poor soul, poor soul! I was very miserable. I had not the heart to ring for lights. I sat down in my chair with all sorts of dismal thoughts in my heart. She did not speak either. She was rubbing her rheumatic fingers, and taking in all the warmth and comfort. She looked as if somehow she had escaped--good heavens! from what? CHAPTER IX. Next day that change upon Sarah’s whole appearance continued, and throughout the whole week. She was like herself once more. Carson made no more stealthy expeditions out of doors before my sister set out on her drive. Sarah did not stir in her chair and eye me desperately when the door opened. She even seemed to fall deaf again with that old, soft, slight hardness of hearing which I used to suspect in her. There was no pressure on her heart to startle her ears. While I in the meantime tried my best to think nothing about it, tried to turn a blank face towards what might happen, and to take the days as they came. I have not come to be fifty without having troubles in plenty. For the last dozen years, to be sure, there had been only common embarrassments. The fewer people one has to love, the fewer pleasures and joys are possible, the less grow our sorrows. It is cold comfort, but it is a fact notwithstanding. Grief and delight go hand in hand in full lives; when we are stinted down into a corner both fall off. We suffer less, we enjoy less; we suffer nothing, we enjoy nothing in time, only common pricks and vexations, which send no thrill to the slumbering heart. So we had been living for years; happy enough, nothing to disturb us; or not happy at all, if you choose to take that view of the subject; true either way. Not such a thing as real emotion lighting upon our house, only secondary feelings; no love to speak of, but kindness; no joy, but occasional pleasure; no grief, but sometimes regret. A very composed life, which had been broken in upon quite suddenly by a bewildering shadow,--tragic fear, doubt, alarm,--sudden mystery no ways explainable, or madness explainable but hopeless. In this pause of dismay and doubt, while the dark, unknown, inexplicable figure had turned away from the door a little, it was hard to turn from its fascination and go quietly back to that quiet life.