One day, I was warming her a nice cup of beef-tea over the fire, when I heard, quite sudden and quite plain, these words from where she lay on the bed, 'Why are you always so quiet here?
Why doesn't somebody speak to me ?' "I knew there wasn't another soul in the room but the poor child at that time; and yet, the voice as spoke those words was no more like little Mary's voice, than my voice, sir, is like yours.

It sounded, somehow, hoarse and low, and deep and faint, all at the same time; the strangest, shockingest voice to come from a child, who always used to speak so clearly and prettily before, that ever I heard.

If I was only cleverer with my words, ma'am, and could tell you about it properly--but I can't.

I only know it gave me such a turn to hear her, that I upset the beef-tea, and ran back in a fright to the bed.

'Why, Mary! Mary!' says I, quite loud, 'are you so well already that you're trying to imitate Mr.Jubber's gruff voice ?' "There was the same wondering look in her eyes--only wilder than I had ever seen it yet--while I was speaking.