The Martyrs of Love

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
Rather the dead, for life seemed something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not her memory; though a heavy ache
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true,
Brought back the sense of pain, without the cause,
For, for a time the furies made a pause.

--Byron.

So Nora's lifeless form was laid upon the bed. Old Mrs. Jones, who had
fallen asleep in her chair, was aroused by the disturbance, and stumbled
up only half awake to see what was the matter, and to offer her
assistance.

Old Jovial had modestly retired to the chimney corner, leaving the poor
girl to the personal attention of her sister.

Hannah had thrown off her shawl and bonnet, and was hastily divesting
Nora of her wet garments, when the old nurse appeared at her side.

"Oh, Mrs. Jones, is she dead?" cried the elder sister.

"No," replied the oracle, putting her warm hand upon the heart of the
patient, "only in a dead faint and chilled to the marrow of her bones,
poor heart! Whatever made her run out so in this storm? Where did you
find her? had she fallen down in a fit? What was the cause on it?" she
went on to hurry question upon question, with the vehemence of an old
gossip starving for sensation news.