Carmilla

I started from her.

She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had

flown, and a face colorless and apathetic.

"Is there a chill in the air, dear?" she said drowsily. "I almost

shiver; have I been dreaming? Let us come in. Come; come; come in."

"You look ill, Carmilla; a little faint. You certainly must take some

wine," I said.

"Yes. I will. I'm better now. I shall be quite well in a few minutes.

Yes, do give me a little wine," answered Carmilla, as we approached

the door.

"Let us look again for a moment; it is the last time, perhaps, I shall

see the moonlight with you."

"How do you feel now, dear Carmilla? Are you really better?" I asked.

I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with

the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us.

"Papa would be grieved beyond measure," I added, "if he thought you were

ever so little ill, without immediately letting us know. We have a very

skilful doctor near us, the physician who was with papa today."

"I'm sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am

quite well again. There is nothing ever wrong with me, but a

little weakness.

"People say I am languid; I am incapable of exertion; I can scarcely walk

as far as a child of three years old: and every now and then the little

strength I have falters, and I become as you have just seen me. But

after all I am very easily set up again; in a moment I am perfectly

myself. See how I have recovered."

So, indeed, she had; and she and I talked a great deal, and very

animated she was; and the remainder of that evening passed without any

recurrence of what I called her infatuations. I mean her crazy talk and

looks, which embarrassed, and even frightened me.

But there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a

new turn, and seemed to startle even Carmilla's languid nature into

momentary energy.