cast upon Lady Mary from all sides made this child of her bounty but more deeply her partisan, more warm in her adoration.  She would not, for all the inheritances of the world, have acknowledged even to herself that Lady Mary was in fault.  Mary felt that she would rather a thousand times be poor and have to gain her daily bread, than that she who had nourished and cherished her should have been forced in her cheerful old age to think, before she chose to do so, of parting and farewell and the inevitable end.

She thought, like every young creature in strange and painful circumstances, that she would be unable to sleep, and did indeed lie awake and weep for an hour or more, thinking of all the changes that had happened; but sleep overtook her before she knew, while her mind was still full of these thoughts; and her dreams were endless, confused, full of misery and longing.  She dreamed a dozen times over that she heard Lady Mary’s soft call through the open door,—­which was not open, but shut closely and locked by the sisters who now inhabited the next room; and once she dreamed that Lady Mary came to her bedside and stood there looking at her earnestly, with the tears flowing from her eyes.  Mary struggled in her sleep to tell her benefactress how she loved her, and approved of all she had done, and wanted nothing,—­but felt herself bound as by a nightmare, so that she could not move or speak, or even put out a hand to dry those tears which it was intolerable to her to see; and woke with the struggle, and the miserable sensation of seeing her dearest friend weep and being unable to comfort her.  The moon was shining into the room, throwing part of it into a cold, full light, while blackness lay in all corners.  The impression of her dream was so strong that Mary’s eyes turned instantly to the spot where in her dream her godmother had stood.  To be sure, there was nobody there; but as her consciousness returned, and with it the sweep of painful recollection, the sense of change, the miserable contrast between the present and the past,—­sleep fled from her eyes.  She fell into the vividly awake condition which is the alternative of broken sleep, and gradually, as she lay, there came upon her that mysterious sense of another presence in the room which is so subtle and indescribable.  She neither saw anything nor heard anything, and yet she felt that some one was there.

She lay still for some time and held her breath, listening for a movement, even for the sound of breathing,—­scarcely alarmed, yet sure that she was not alone.  After a while she raised herself on her pillow, and in a low voice asked, “Who is there? is any one there?” There was no reply, no sound of any description, and yet the conviction grew upon her.  Her heart began to beat, and the blood to mount to her head.  Her own being made so much sound, so much commotion, that it seemed to her she could not hear anything save those beatings and pulsings.  Yet she was not