134
WYLDER'S HJlJVD.
leaned her head on her hand with a moan, the living pic-
ture of despair.
"You've a headache, Miss Radie?" said the old woman,
standing by her with that painful enquiry which sat nat-
urally on her face.
"A heartache, Tamar."
"Let me help you off with these things, Miss Radie,
dear."
The young lady did not seem to hear, but she allowed
Tamar to remove her cloak and hat and handkerchief.
The old servant had placed the tea-things on the table,
and what remained of that wine of which Stanley had
partaken on the night from which the eclipse of Rachel's
life dated. So, without troubling her with questions, she
made tea, and then some negus, with careful and trembling
hands.
"No," said Rachel, a little pettishly, and put it aside.
"See now, Miss Radie, dear. You look awful sick
and tired. You are tired to death and pale, and sorry,
my dear child; and to please old Tamar, you'll just drink
this."
"Thank you, Tamar, I believe you are right."
The truth was she needed it; and in the same dejected
way she sipped it slowly; and then there was a long sil-
ence — the silence of a fatigue, like that of fever, near
which sleep refuses to come. But she sat in that waking
lethargy in which are sluggish dreams of horror, and
neither eyes nor ears for that which is before us.
When at last, with another great sigh, she lifted her
head, her eyes rested on old Tamar's face, at the other
side of the fire-place, with a dark, dull surprise and puz-
zle for a moment, as if she could not tell why she was
there, or where the place was; and then rising up, with
piteous look in her old nurse's face, she said, "Oh! Ta-
mar, Tamar. It is a dreadful world."