Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: “Try to eat.”

“Yes⁠—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon.

“Not too much at first⁠—restrain her,” said the brother; “she has had enough.” And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.

“A little more, St. John⁠—look at the avidity in her eyes.”

“No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now⁠—ask her her name.”