Her limbs fail her.

She sinks into Mrs.Crayford's arms.
The servants, answering the call for help, carry her into the house.
They lay her insensible on her bed.

After half an hour or more, her eyes open again--this time with the light of life in them--open, and rest languidly on the friend sitting by the bedside.
"I have had a dreadful dream," she murmurs faintly.

"Am I ill, Lucy?
I feel so weak." Even as she says the words, sleep, gentle, natural sleep, takes her suddenly, as it takes young children weary with their play.

Though it is all over now, though no further watching is required, Mrs.Crayford still keeps her place by the bedside, too anxious and too wakeful to retire to her own room.
On other occasions, she is accustomed to dismiss from her mind the words which drop from Clara in the trance.