'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you. You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and then I will tell you anything you want to know.' Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to bring some jelly and other invalid food, which had been in preparation, and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table, the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant, fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding afterwards to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with the gentlest touch imaginable. 'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task, and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience.' Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite different from her usual clear voice, 'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he dead?' 'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.' 'Ah, you were to take me to him,' cried the girl, raising her voice. 'I recollect it all now. Why am I here in bed? Why do we not start at once?' 'We do not start because it would be useless,' said Pauline. 'You do not know what has happened, my poor child. On the evening when you were to have gone to London with me, just as we were on the point of setting out, you, who had fought so well against the excitement, gave way at last, and fell into a fainting fit.' 'How long ago is that?' said Alice, putting her hand to her head. 'That is nearly three days ago,' said Pauline, 'and you have remained in a state of unconsciousness ever since, and--' 'And now I am too late to see him,' cried Alice wildly. 'I know it by your manner, by your averted face. They cannot have buried him without my having seen him. It is not so? O, tell me at once.' 'It would be worse than cruel to deceive you, my poor girl,' said Pauline softly. 'It is so.'