longer, but somebody else. Whatever happened, the fault,
this time, would lie at the door of the major's mother. The old lady
and the mistress had had a dreadful quarrel two years since; and the old
lady had gone away in a fury, telling her son, before all the servants,
that, if he had a spark of spirit in him, he would never submit to his
wife's temper as he did. It would be too much, perhaps, to accuse the
major's mother of purposely picking out a handsome governess to spite
the major's wife. But it might be safely said that the old lady was the
last person in the world to humor the mistress's jealousy, by declining
to engage a capable and respectable governess for her granddaughter
because that governess happened to be blessed with good looks. How
it was all to end (except that it was certain to end badly) no human
creature could say. Things were looking as black already as things well
could. Miss Neelie was crying, after the day's pleasure (which was one
bad sign); the mistress had found fault with nobody (which was another);
the master had wished her good-night through the door (which was a
third); and the governess had locked herself up in her room (which was
the worst sign of all, for it looked as if she distrusted the servants).
Thus the stream of the woman's gossip ran on, and thus it reached
Midwinter's ears through the window, till the clock in the stable-yard
struck, and stopped the talking. When the last vibrations of the bell
had died away, the voices were not audible again, and the silence was
broken no more.

Another interval passed, and Midwinter made a new effort to rouse
himself. This time he kindled the light without hesitation, and took the
pen in hand.

He wrote at the first trial with a sudden facility of expression,
which, surprising him as he went on, ended in rousing in him some vague
suspicion of himself. He left the table, and bathed his head and face
in water, and came back to read what he had written. The language
was barely intelligible; sentences were left unfinished; words were
misplaced one for the other. Every line recorded the protest of the
weary brain against the merciless will that had forced it into action.
Midwinter tore up the sheet of paper as he had torn up the other sheets
before it, and, sinking under the struggle at last, laid his weary
head on the pillow. Almost on the instant, exhaustion overcame him, and
before he could put the light out he fell asleep.

He was rouse