“But Miss Monfort may need you in making her preparations,” remonstrated Mrs. Raymond, “and Clayton and Ernie will want your attention; besides, fires will go down if not constantly mended, this cold evening.”

“Dar’s plenty of coal in de box, an’ de tongs, wid claws, wat Ernie is so fond of handling ready and waitin’ for dem wat’s strong enough to use dem if dey choose, an’ tea in de caddy, an’ de kittle on de trivet, jes filled up, de brass toastin’-fork on de peg in de closet, ’sides bread an’ butter, an’ jam, an’ new milk on de shelf, an’ I is ’bliged to go anyway, case my ticklerest friend am dyin’ ob de numony—­I is jes got word; but at nine o’clock” (and she looked maliciously at me) “percisely Dinah’ll be in dis pickin’ patch—­he! he! he! can’t possumbly cum no airlier.”

In a flash I saw the advantage her prolonged absence would give me, unless, indeed, she had become my confederate, so I beheld her depart with a feeling of relief which reacted in the next moment to positive helplessness and terror as the bolt was drawn, behind her.  What could I do?  What was there to be done?  For a time I sat mute and crushed by consideration; then casting myself on my bed I slept for half an hour, the kind of slumber that confusion generates, and yet I woke refreshed, calmed, comforted, and with a clearly-formed resolution and plan of action.  I rose and approached Mrs. Clayton, whose groans, perhaps, aroused me, and, as I stood beside her bed, the clock in the dining room-below struck six.  I had still three hours for hope—­for endeavor, before the circle of flame should close hopelessly around me forever!  Three hours—­were they not enough?  Could I not compel them to concentration?

A cup of strong tea was hastily drawn and swallowed—­another made for, and administered by my hand to, Mrs. Clayton, with toast ad libitum—­a tedious process—­and afterward Ernie’s supper prepared and eaten—­all in less than half an hour.  By seven he was in bed and asleep, and I had taken my seat by Mrs. Clayton, for the purpose, apparently, of merciful ministry to her condition—­a piece of self-abnegation, as it seemed, and as she felt it, scarcely to be expected on my blissful marriage-night.

“I feel very sorry for you; you suffer so, Mrs. Clayton,” I had said, as I drew a chair beside her bed.

“And I for you, Miss Monfort; our fate seems equally hard, but we must bear it;” and she groaned heavily and closed her eyes, evidently in great pain.

“I have come to that conclusion, also, after a bitter struggle; physical pain is not so easily borne, however; the body has little philosophy.”

“I thought all this was over,” she rejoined, abstractedly, “when my hands were drawn as you see them by neuralgia ten years since.  But I did not suffer as much then, I believe, as I do now; besides, I was younger, happier, better able to bear pain.”

“Yes, that is true; the old should be at rest,” at least my sense of justice whispered this; then, after a pause:  “Does my rubbing ease your shoulder, Mrs. Clayton?”