“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.”

I felt I could speak, and I answered — “My name is Jane Elliott.” Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume an alias.

“And where do you live? Where are your friends?”