‘She seems very ill,’ said Wyndham. His man had followed him, and now, through a sign from his master, he pulled forward a huge armchair, in which Wyndham placed the unconscious girl. The Professor came nearer and stared down at her. She was very young—hardly eighteen—but already Misery or Want, or both, had seized and laid their cruel hands upon her, dabbing in dark bistre shades beneath her eyes, and making sad hollows in her pallid cheeks. The lips, white now, were firmly closed as if in death, but something about the formation of them suggested the idea that even in life they could be firm too. It was a face that might be beautiful if health had warmed it, and if joy had found a seat within the heart that now seemed at its last ebb. The lashes lying on the white, cold cheek were singularly long and dark, and Wyndham roused himself suddenly to find himself wondering what could be the colour of the eyes that lay hidden behind that wonderful fringe. Her gown was of blue serge, neatly, even elegantly made, and the collar and cuffs she wore were quite primitive in their whiteness and simplicity. She had no hat or cloak with her, but a little gray woollen shawl had been evidently twisted round her head. Now it had fallen back, leaving all the glory of her rich chestnut hair revealed. Involuntarily the young man glanced at her left hand. There was no ring there. An intense wave of pity swept over him. Another! Dear God! what cruel sorrows lie within this world of Yours! The face was so young, so free of hardness, vice, or taint of any kind, that his very heart bled for her. Misery alone seemed to mark it. That was deeply stamped. Looking at her, he almost hoped that she would never wake again—that she was really dead; but even as this thought crossed his mind, she stirred, sighed softly, and opened her eyes. For awhile she gazed at them—on the Professor, impassive, silent; on the younger man, anxious, pained—and then with a sharp, quick movement she released herself from the arm Wyndham had placed round her, and raised herself to a sitting posture. There was such terror in her eyes as she did this that the younger man hastened to reassure her. ‘You are quite safe here,’ he said kindly. The girl looked at him, then cast a frightened glance past him, and over his shoulder, as though looking fearfully for some dreaded object. ‘My man found you on the steps outside. You were ill—fainting, he said—so he brought you in here to’—with a gesture towards the Professor—‘this gentleman’s house.’ The girl looked anxiously at the Professor, who nodded as in duty bound, but who seemed unmistakably bored, for all that, and angry enough to frighten her afresh. ‘If you will tell us where you live,’ said Wyndham gently, ‘we shall see that you are taken back there.’ The girl shrank visibly. She caught the little shawl that had slipped from her, and drew it round her head once more, almost hiding her face.