see plainly, that Midwinter finds in
Armadale's company, and in Armadale's new yacht, a refuge from me. He
is always in better spirits when Armadale is here. He forgets me in
Armadale almost as completely as he forgets me in his work. And I bear
it! What a pattern wife, what an excellent Christian I am!"

"October 19th.--Nothing new. Yesterday over again."

"October 20th.--One piece of news. Midwinter is suffering from nervous
headache; and is working in spite of it, to make time for his holiday
with his friend."

"October 21st.--Midwinter is worse. Angry and wild and unapproachable,
after two bad nights, and two uninterrupted days at his desk. Under any
other circumstances he would take the warning and leave off. But nothing
warns him now. He is still working as hard as ever, for Armadale's sake.
How much longer will my patience last?"

"October 22d.--Signs, last night, that Midwinter is taxing his brains
beyond what his brains will bear. When he did fall asleep, he was
frightfully restless; groaning and talking and grinding his teeth. From
some of the words I heard, he seemed at one time to be dreaming of his
life when he was a boy, roaming the country with the dancing dogs. At
another time he was back again with Armadale, imprisoned all night on
the wrecked ship. Toward the early morning hours he grew quieter. I fell
asleep; and, waking after a short interval, found myself alone. My first
glance round showed me a light burning in Midwinter's dressing-room. I
rose softly, and went to look at him.

"He was seated in the great, ugly, old-fashioned chair, which I ordered
to be removed into the dressing-room out of the way when we first came
here. His head lay back, and one of his hands hung listlessly over
the arm of the chair. The other hand was on his lap. I stole a little
nearer, and saw that exhaustion had overpowered him while he was either
reading or writing, for there were books, pens, ink, and paper on the
table before him. What had he got up to do secretly, at that hour of
the morning? I looked closer at the papers on the table. They were all
neatly folded (as he usually keeps them), with one exception; and that
exception, lying open on the rest, was Mr. Brock's letter.

"I looked round at him again, after making this discovery, and then
noticed for the first time another written paper, lying under the hand
that rested on his lap. There was no moving it away without the risk of
waking him. Part of