ally returned, and in
time Jacob Settle and I became quite friends. Once or twice as I
crossed the moorland on Sundays I looked in on him; but on such
occasions he was shy and ill at ease so that I felt diffident about
calling to see him. He would never under any circumstances come into
my own lodgings.

One Sunday afternoon, I was coming back from a long walk beyond the
moor, and as I passed Settle's cottage stopped at the door to say 'How
do you do?' to him. As the door was shut, I thought that he was out,
and merely knocked for form's sake, or through habit, not expecting to
get any answer. To my surprise, I heard a feeble voice from within,
though what was said I could not hear. I entered at once, and found
Jacob lying half-dressed upon his bed. He was as pale as death, and
the sweat was simply rolling off his face. His hands were
unconsciously gripping the bedclothes as a drowning man holds on to
whatever he may grasp. As I came in he half arose, with a wild, hunted
look in his eyes, which were wide open and staring, as though
something of horror had come before him; but when he recognised me he
sank back on the couch with a smothered sob of relief and closed his
eyes. I stood by him for a while, quite a minute or two, while he
gasped. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me, but with such a
despairing, woeful expression that, as I am a living man, I would have
rather seen that frozen look of horror. I sat down beside him and
asked after his health. For a while he would not answer me except to
say that he was not ill; but then, after scrutinising me closely, he
half arose on his elbow and said:

'I thank you kindly, sir, but I'm simply telling you the truth. I am
not ill, as men call it, though God knows whether there be not worse
sicknesses than doctors know of. I'll tell you, as you are so kind,
but I trust that you won't even mention such a thing to a living soul,
for it might work me more and greater woe. I am suffering from a bad
dream.'

'A bad dream!' I said, hoping to cheer him; 'but dreams pass away with
the light--even with waking.' There I stopped, for before he spoke I
saw the answer in his desolate look round the little place.

'No! no! that's all well for people that live in comfort and with
those they love around them. It is a thousand times worse for those
who live alone and have to do so. What cheer is there for me, waking
here in the silence of the night, with the wide moor around me full of