"Nothing very romantic, I hope, Thurstan. Remember, I cannot
stand much romance; I always distrust it."
"I don't know what you mean by romance. The story is real enough,
and not out of the common way, I'm afraid."
He paused; he did not get over the difficulty.
"Well, tell it me at once, Thurstan. I am afraid you have let
some one, or perhaps only your own imagination, impose upon you;
but don't try my patience too much; you know I've no great
stock."
"Then I'll tell you. The young girl was brought to the inn here
by a gentleman, who has left her; she is very ill, and has no one
to see after her."
Miss Benson had some masculine tricks, and one was whistling a
long, low whistle when surprised or displeased. She had often
found it a useful vent for feelings, and she whistled now. Her
brother would rather she had spoken.
"Have you sent for her friends?" she asked, at last.
"She has none."
Another pause and another whistle, but rather softer and more
wavering than the last.
"How is she ill?"
"Pretty nearly as quiet as if she were dead. She does not speak,
or move, or even sigh."
"It would be better for her to die at once, I think."
"Faith!"
That one word put them right. It was spoken in the tone which had
authority over her; it was so full of grieved surprise and
mournful upbraiding. She was accustomed to exercise a sway over
him, owing to her greater decision of character, and, probably,
if everything were traced to its cause, to her superior vigour of
constitution; but at times she was humbled before his pure,
childlike nature, and felt where she was inferior.
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