handle, Miss Trevisa would be distracted from her work and rush out of her room, just as a spider darts from its recess, and sweep down on the luckless servant to worry and abuse her.
Judith, knowing this, knew also that the day of Miss Trevisa's departure would be marked with white chalk, and lead to a general relaxation of discipline, to an inhaling of long breaths, and a general stretching and taking of ease. It was necessary, therefore, that she should go round and see that the wheel was kept turning.
To her surprise, on entering the hall, she found Captain Coppinger there.
"I beg your pardon," she said, "I thought you were out."
She looked at him and was struck with his appearance, the clay-like color of his face, the dark lines in it, the faded look in his eyes.
"Are you unwell?" she asked; "you really look ill."
"I am ill."
"Ill—what is the matter?"
"A burning in my throat. Cramp and pains but what is that to you?"
"When did it come on?"
"But recently."
"Will you not have a doctor to see you?"
"A doctor!—no."
"Was the porridge as you liked it this morning? I made it."
"It was good enough."
"Would you like more now?"
"No."
"And to-morrow morning, will you have the same?"
"Yes—the same."
"I will make it again. Aunt said the new cook did not understand how to mix and boil it to your liking."
Coppinger nodded.
Judith remained standing and observing him. Some faces when touched by pain and sickness are softened and sweetened. The hand of suffering passes over the countenance and brushes away all that is frivolous, sordid, vulgar; it gives dignity, purity, refinement, and shows what the inner soul might be were it not entangled and degraded by base association and pursuit. It is different with other faces, the hand of suffering
