ng dreary and sombre in heart--more and more so as the
minutes rolled on, and the silence and loneliness pressed on him
more and more heavily. He was surprised at his own
down-heartedness, and tried to remember how he had spent former
nights so pleasantly out of doors. Ah, he had always had a
companion within call, and something to do--cray fishing, bat
fowling, or something of the kind! Sitting there doing nothing,
he fancied, must make it so heavy to-night. By a strong effort of
will he shook off the oppression. He moved, and hummed a tune to
break the silence; he got up and walked up and down, lest it
should again master him. If wind, storm, pouring rain, anything
to make sound or movement, would but come!

But neither of them came, and there was little help in sound or
movement made by himself. Besides it occurred to him that much
walking up and down might defeat the object of his watch. No one
would come near while he was on the move; and he was probably
making marks already which might catch the eye of the setter of
the nightlines at some distance, if that cunning party waited for
the morning light, and might keep him away from the place
altogether.

So he sat down again on his old seat, and leant hard against the
alder trunk, as though to steady himself, and keep all
troublesome thoughts well in front of him. In this attitude of
defense he reasoned with himself on the absurdity of allowing
himself to be depressed by the mere accidents of place, and
darkness, and silence; but all the reasoning at his command
didn't alter the fact. He felt the enemy advancing again, and,
casting, about for help, fell back on the thought that he was
going through a task, holding to his word, doing what he had said
he would do; and this brought him some relief for the moment, He
fixed his mind steadily on this task of his; but alas, here again
in his very last stronghold, the enemy began to turn his flank,
and the position every minute became more and more untenable.

He had of late fallen into a pestilent habit of cross-questioning
himself on anything which he was about--setting up himself like a
cock at Shrovetide, and pelting himself with inexorable "whys?"
and "wherefores?" A pestilent habit truly he had found it, and
one which left a man no peace of his life--a relentless,
sleepless habit, always ready to take advantage of him, but never
so viciously alert, that he remembered, as on this night.

And so this questioning se