present objects he has in view.
Midwinter has been expecting him for a week past, and he may walk into
this very room in which I am writing, at this very moment, for all I
know to the contrary.

"Tempting circumstances, these--with all the wrongs I have suffered
at his mother's hands and at his, still alive in my memory; with
Miss Milroy confidently waiting to take her place at the head of his
household; with my dream of living happy and innocent in Midwinter's
love dispelled forever, and with nothing left in its place to help me
against myself. I wish it wasn't raining; I wish I could go out.

"Perhaps something may happen to prevent Armadale from coming to Naples?
When he last wrote, he was waiting at Gibraltar for an English steamer
in the Mediterranean trade to bring him on here. He may get tired of
waiting before the steamer comes, or he may hear of a yacht at some
other place than this. A little bird whispers in my ear that it may
possibly be the wisest thing he ever did in his life if he breaks his
engagement to join us at Naples.

"Shall I tear out the leaf on which all these shocking things have been
written? No. My Diary is so nicely bound--it would be positive barbarity
to tear out a leaf. Let me occupy myself harmlessly with something else.
What shall it be? My dressing-case--I will put my dressing-case tidy,
and polish up the few little things in it which my misfortunes have
still left in my possession.

"I have shut up the dressing-case again. The first thing I found in
it was Armadale's shabby present to me on my marriage--the rubbishing
little ruby ring. That irritated me, to begin with. The second thing
that turned up was my bottle of Drops. I caught myself measuring the
doses with my eye, and calculating how many of them would be enough to
take a living creature over the border-land between sleep and death. Why
I should have locked the dressing-case in a fright, before I had quite
completed my calculation, I don't know; but I did lock it. And here I
am back again at my Diary, with nothing, absolutely nothing, to write
about. Oh, the weary day! the weary day! Will nothing happen to excite
me a little in this horrible place?"

"October 12th.--Midwinter's all-important letter to the newspaper was
dispatched by the post last night. I was foolish enough to suppose that
I might be honored by having some of his spare attention bestowed on
me to-day. Nothing of the sort! He had a restless night, after