Rochester, who had been leaning from the barge, gazing in mingled curiosity, wonder, and admiration at the lovely face, turned now to her champion. “Who is she, Ormiston?” he said, persuasively. But Ormiston only laughed, and rowed energetically for the shore. The crowd was still lingering; and half a dozen hands were extended to draw the boat up to the landing. He lifted the light form in his arms and bore it from the boat; but before he could proceed farther with his armful of beauty, a faint but imperious voice spoke: “Please put me down. I am not a baby, and can walk myself.” Ormiston was so surprised, or rather dismayed, by this unexpected address, that he complied at once, and placed her on her own pretty feet. But the young lady's sense of propriety was a good deal stronger than her physical powers; and she swayed and tottered, and had to cling to her unknown friend for support. “You are scarcely strong enough, I am afraid, dear lady,” he said, kindly. “You had better let me carry you. I assure you I am quite equal to it, or even a more weighty burden, if necessity required.” “Thank you, sir,” said the faint voice, faintly; “but I would rather walk. Where are you taking me to?” “To your own house, if you wish--it is quite close at hand.” “Yes. Yes. Let us go there! Prudence is there, and she will take care of me.”. “Will she?” said Ormiston, doubtfully. “I hope you do not suffer much pain!” “I do not suffer at all,” she said, wearily; “only I am so tired. Oh, I wish I were home!” Ormiston half led, half lifted her up the stairs. “You are almost there, dear lady--see, it is close at hand!” She half lifted her languid eyes, but did not speak. Leaning panting on his arm, he drew her gently on until they reached her door. It was still unfastened. Prudence had kept her word, and not gone near it; and he opened it, and helped her in. “Where now?” he asked. “Up stairs,” she said, feebly. “I want to go to my own room.” Ormiston knew where that was, and assisted her there as tenderly as he could have done La Masque herself. He paused on the threshold; for the room was dark. “There is a lamp and a tinder-box on the mantel,” said the faint, sweet voice, “if you will only please to find them.” Ormiston crowed the room--fortunately he knew the latitude of the place --and moving his hand with gingerly precaution along the mantel-shelf, lest he should upset any of the gimcracks thereon, soon obtained the articles named, and struck a light. The lady was leaning wearily against the door-post, but now she came forward, and dropped exhausted into the downy pillows of a lounge. “Is there anything I can do for you, madame?” began Ormiston, with as solicitous an air as though he had been her father. “A glass of wine would be of use to you, I think, and then, if you wish, I will go for a doctor.” “You are very kind. You will find wine and glasses in the room opposite this, and I feel so faint that I think you had better bring me some.”