In throwing out her arms, she had flung back the bedclothes, and her daintily embroidered night-gown revealed a rather large, grand throat, of the same rare whiteness.

Her hands were perfect--every finger and every nail-- Those fine[1] nimble brethren small, Armed with pearl-shell helmets all.
[Footnote 1: _Joshua Sylvester._ I suspect the word ought to be _five_, not _fine_, as my copy (1613) has it.] When Mrs.Puckridge came into the room, she always set her candle on the sill of the storm-window: it was there, happily, when the doctor drew near the village, and it guided him to the cottage-gate.

He fastened Niger to the gate, crossed the little garden, gently lifted the door-latch, and ascended the stair.

He found the door of the chamber open, signed to Mrs.Puckridge to be still, softly approached the bed, and stood gazing in silence on the sufferer, who lay at the moment apparently unconscious.

But suddenly, as if she had become aware of a presence, she flashed wide her great eyes, and the pitiful entreaty that came into them when she saw him, went straight to his heart.