knew by the regular breathing which, standing on the threshold of her room, she could distinctly hear, that Richard was sleeping soundly.  The watchman had just made the tour of that hall, and the faint glimmer of his lantern was disappearing down the stairs.  It would be an hour before he came back again, and now, if ever, was her time.  There was a great throb of fear at her heart, a trembling of every joint, a choking sensation in her throat, a shrinking back from what might probably be the result of that midnight visit; and then, nerving herself for the effort, she stepped out into the hall and listened.  Everything was quiet, and every room was darkened, save by the moon, which, at its full, was pouring a flood of light through the southern window at the end of the hall and seemed to beckon her on.  She was standing now at Richard’s door, opened wide enough to admit her, and so she made no noise as she stepped cautiously across the threshold and stood within the chamber.  The window faced the east, and the inside blinds were opened wide, making Ethelyn remember how annoyed she used to be at that propensity of Richard’s to roll up every curtain and open every shutter so as to make the room light and airy.  It was light now almost as day, for the moonlight lay upon the floor in a great sheet of silver, and showed her plainly the form and features of the sick man upon the bed.  She knew he was asleep, and with a beating heart she drew near to him, and stood for a moment looking down upon the face she had not seen since that wintry morning five years before, when in the dim twilight, it had bent wistfully over her, as if the lips would fain have asked forgiveness for the angry words and deeds of the previous night.  That face was pale now, and thin, and the soft brown hair was streaked with gray, making Richard look older than he was.  He had suffered, and the suffering had left its marks upon him so indisputably that Ethie could have cried out with pain to see how changed he was.

“Poor Richard,” she whispered softly, and kneeling by the bedside she laid her hot cheek as near as she dared to the white, wasted hand resting outside the counterpane.

She did not think what the result of waking him might be.  She did not especially care.  She was his wife, let what would happen—­his erring but repentant Ethie.  She had a right to be there with him, and so at last she took his thin hand between her own, and caressed it tenderly.  Then Richard moved, and moaning in his deep sleep seemed to have a vague consciousness that someone was with him.  Perhaps it was the nurse who had been with him at night on one or two occasions; but the slumber into which he had fallen was too deep to be easily broken.  Something he murmured about the medicine, and Ethie’s hand held it to his lips, and Ethie’s arm was passed beneath his pillow as she lifted up his head while he swallowed it.  Then, without unclosing his eyes, he lay back upon his pillow again, while