rank
another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass
when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with
elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more
cigars.

Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a
delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities
pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake
her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her
helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.

The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the
world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from
silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and
the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.

Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She
tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into
the house.

"Are you coming in, Leonce?" she asked, turning her face toward her
husband.

"Yes, dear," he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke.
"Just as soon as I have finished my cigar."

XII

She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours,
disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving
only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something
unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning.
The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However,
she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external
or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her,
as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her
soul of responsibility.

Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep.
A few, who intended to go over to the Cheniere for mass, were moving
about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were
already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday
prayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was
following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and
was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He
put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the
hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her.

The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun'