‘I cannot have it go on like this,’ said he, still whispering.

‘She will be wearied out, and then we will take her to her bed.’

But Mr. Bolton succeeded in demanding that a telegram should be sent up to William requesting him to come down to the Grange as early as possible on the following morning.  This was sent, and also a message to Robert Bolton in Cambridge, telling him that William had been summoned.  During these two days he had not been seen at the Grange, though he knew much of what was being done there.  Had he, however, been aware of all that his sister and step-mother were enduring, he would probably have appeared upon the scene.  As it was, he had justified his absence by pleading to himself Mrs. Bolton’s personal enmity, and the understanding which existed that he should not visit the house.  Then, when it was dark, Caldigate with the carriage again returned to the town, where he slept as he had done on the previous night.  Again their food was brought to the two women in the hall, and again each of them swallowed a cup of tea as they prepared themselves for the work of the night.

In the hall there was a gas-stove, which was kept burning, and gave a faint glimmer, so that each could see the outline of the other.  Light beyond that there was none.  In the weary long hours of nights such as these, nights passed on the seats of railway carriages, or rougher nights, such as some of us remember, on the outside of coaches, or sitting by the side of the sick, sleep will come early and will early go.  The weariness of the past day will produce some forgetfulness for an hour or two, and then come the slow, cold, sad hours through which the dawn has to be expected.  Between two and three these unfortunates were both awake, the poor baby having been but lately carried back from its mother to its cradle.  Then suddenly Mrs. Bolton heard rather than saw her daughter slip down from her chair on to the ground and stretch herself along upon the hard floor.  ‘Hester,’ she said; but Hester did not answer.  ‘Hester, are you hurt?’ When there was still no answer, the mother got up, with limbs so stiff that she could hardly use them, and stood over her child.  ‘Hester, speak to me.’

‘I will never speak to you more,’ said the daughter.

‘My child, why will you not go to your comfortable wholesome bed?’

‘I will not go; I will die here.’

’The door shall not be locked.  You shall have the key with you.  I will do nothing to hurt you if you will go to your bed.’

’I will not go; leave me alone.  You cannot love me, mamma, or you would not treat me like this.’

’Love you!  Oh, my child!  If you knew!  If you could understand!  Why am I doing this?  Is it not because I feel it to be my duty?  Will you let me take you to your bed?’

’No, never.  I, too, can do my duty,—­my duty to my husband.  It is to remain here till I can get to him, even though I should die.’  Then she turned her poor limbs on the hard floor, and the mother covered her with a cloak and placed a cushion beneath her head.  Then, after standing a while over her child, she returned to her chair, and did not move or speak again till the old cook came, with the first glimmer of the morning, to inquire how the night had been passed.