But, as I spoke, I fancied her fair brow clouded a little, as if she was not accustomed to common humanity, and the word sounded harsh in her ear. The cloud, however, passed so quickly that I doubted, until I knew her better, whether it had really been there. The two maids were now ready; and, Jemima instructed by the other, they lifted her with the utmost ease, and bore her gently towards the house. The garden-gate was just wide enough to let the chair through, and in a minute more she was upon the sofa. Then a fit of coughing came on which shook her dreadfully. When it had passed she lay quiet, with closed eyes, and a smile hovering about her sweet, thin-lipped mouth. By and by she opened them, and looked at me with a pitiful expression. "I fear you are far from well," I said. "I'm dying," she returned quietly. "I hope not," was all I could answer. "Why should you hope not?" she returned. "I am in no strait betwixt two. I desire to depart. For me to die will be all gain." "But your friends?" I ventured to suggest, feeling my way, and not quite relishing either the form or tone of her utterance. "I have none but my husband." "Then your husband?" I persisted. "Ah!" she said mournfully, "he will miss me, no doubt, for a while. But it _must_ be a weight off him, for I have been a sufferer so long!" At this moment I heard a heavy, hasty step in the passage; the next, the room door opened, and in came, in hot haste, wiping his red face, a burly man, clumsy and active, with an umbrella in his hand, followed by a great, lumbering Newfoundland dog. "Down, Polyphemus!" he said to the dog, which crept under a chair; while he, taking no notice of my presence, hurried up to his wife. "My love! my little dove!" he said eagerly: "did you think I had forsaken you to the cruel elements?" "No, Alcibiades," she answered, with a sweet little drawl; "but you do not observe that I am not the only lady in the room." Then, turning to me, "This is my husband, Mr. Cromwell," she said. "I cannot tell him _your_ name." "I am Mrs. Percivale," I returned, almost mechanically, for the gentleman's two names had run together and were sounding in my head: _Alcibiades Cromwell_! How could such a conjunction have taken place without the intervention of Charles Dickens? "I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Mr. Cromwell, bowing. "Permit my anxiety about my poor wife to cover my rudeness. I had climbed the other side of the glen before I saw the fog; and it is no such easy matter to get up and down these hills of yours. I am greatly obliged to you for your hospitality. You have doubtless saved her life; for she is a frail flower, shrinking from the least breath of cold."