e
till to-morrow. But it does not signify. Nothing signifies. I must go to
sleep."

She unlocked the door and drew in the candle, flaring in its socket.
She had to press her fingers on her eyeballs before they could bear the
light, all was so very dark. She Sotted her hair up anyhow, took off her
clothes, and crept to bed, almost as if she were creeping to her tomb.
The fragment of candle went out, sinking instantaneously, like a soul
quenched out of existence, and all was total darkness. In that darkness
a heavy hand seemed to lay itself on Agatha's brain, and press down her
eyelids. Scarcely two minutes after, she was asleep.

Hour after hour of the night went by, and there was not a sound, not
a breath in the room. The late moon rose, and gave a little glimmer of
light through the curtains. Now and then there was a faint noise of some
one moving in the house, but Agatha never stirred. She slept heavily as
some people invariably sleep under the pressure of great pain.

Towards morning, when moonlight and dawn were melted together, and the
room was growing light enough to discern faces, there was a step at the
door, and a ray flashing through the opening, for Agatha had left it
ajar.

Nathanael set down the candle outside and came in softly. He was dressed
for a journey--evidently just ready to start. He looked very ill,
sleepless, and worn.

Standing a minute at the door, he listened to his wife's breathing, low
and regular as that of a child. Nature and repose had soothed her; she
slept now as quietly and healthfully as if she had never known trouble.
Her husband crept across the room very carefully, and remained watching
her. Oh! the contrast between the one who _watched_ and the one who
slept!

At first he stood perfectly upright, rigid, and motionless.

Then his hands twisted themselves together, and his eyes grew hot,
bursting. His lips moved as in speaking, though with never a sound. It
was the dumbness--the choking dumbness of that emotion which made it
so terrible. Such silence could not last--he seemed to feel it could
not--and so moved backward out of hearing. There he stood for a little
while, leaning against the wall, his hand bound tightly over his
forehead, and sighing, so bitterly sighing!--that gasp which bursts from
men who have no tears.

At length he became calmer, but still stood without the door. He even
moved the candle further off, as though afraid its glare, might disturb
the sleeper