ble to
compose himself, if left undisturbed. By degrees, his breathing became
more regular, and all was so quiet, that Charles hoped he was at ease,
if not asleep. Meanwhile it was becoming dark, and as night advanced,
the public-house was more quiet, and Charles entertained the hope that
his friend might be strengthened for his approaching suffering, by a few
hours of repose. When the last tinge of brightness had faded from the
clouds, and was succeeded by total darkness, Charles still remained in
the window-seat: he would not procure a light for fear of noise; and he
continued to look out, though nothing was to be seen, but a servant
occasionally crossing the yard with a lantern, which cast a dim gleam
through the room. The ticking of his watch was the only sound that he
heard. It was too dark to see what time it was, but when he imagined he
had been sitting about two hours, the loud ringing of a bell broke the
silence, and disturbed poor Monteath, who had really been asleep. He
attempted to move, but the attempt extorted a deep groan. Charles
sprang to the bedside, and spoke to him. "You are in pain again," said
he, "but you have been easier, and will be so again soon."

Monteath could not answer him.

Charles rang for a light. It was brought, and Monteath asked what
o'clock it was. It was near eleven. "No more!" said he, and he
enquired how soon his father and mother could be with him. Charles
thought in four or five hours, and he told his friend that if he would
be prevailed on to take a little refreshment, he thought he might sleep
again.

"O, no, do not ask me to move," replied Monteath.

"You need not move," replied Charles. "I will give it you, while you
lie still: but indeed you need it."

"I will," said Monteath. "But have you been beside me all this time,
without any refreshment? You must be quite exhausted. Pray go down and
have some supper: I shall not want you just now: why did you not leave
me?"

Charles, though little inclined to eat, consented to have some supper
brought up, but he would not leave his friend. He asked Monteath if he
had not enjoyed his repose.

"It was a great rest," was the reply; "but I believe I have had my poor
mother in my mind almost all the time. I am afraid she is more unhappy
than I am at this moment."

"But when she hears that you have slept, and when she sees you able to
speak, and even to comfort her, as I think you will, she will be
relieved."