Yet there beside her bed, on the table which held her Testament, and the few books—­almost all given her by W.F.—­to which she was wont to turn in her wakeful hours, was George’s photograph in uniform.  About three o’clock in the morning she lit her candle, and lay looking at it, till suddenly she stretched out her hand for it, kissed it repeatedly, and putting it on her breast, clasped her hands over it, and so fell asleep.

But before she fell asleep, she was puzzled by the sounds in Bridget’s room next door.  Bridget seemed to be walking about—­pacing up and down incessantly.  Sometimes the steps would cease; only to begin again after a while with the same monotony.  What could be the matter with Bridget?  This vague worry about her sister entered into and heightened all Nelly’s other troubles.  Yet all the same, in the end, she fell asleep; and the westerly wind blowing over Wetherlam, and chasing wild flocks of grey rain-clouds before him, found no one awake in the cottage or the farm to listen to the concert he was making with the fells, but Bridget—­and Cicely.

* * * * *

Bridget Cookson had indeed some cause for wakefulness.  Locked away in the old workbox, where she kept the papers to which she attached importance, was a letter bearing the imprint ‘O.A.S.,’ which had been delivered to her on Sunday afternoon by the Grasmere post-mistress.  It ran as follows: 

’DEAR MISS COOKSON,—­I know of course that you are fully convinced the poor fellow we have here in charge has nothing to do with your brother-in-law.  But as you saw him, and as the case may throw light on other cases of a similar nature, I thought I would just let you know that owing apparently to the treatment we have been carrying out, there are some very interesting signs of returning consciousness since your visit, though nothing very definite as yet.  He is terribly ill, and physically I see no chance for him.  But I think he may be able to tell us who he is before the end, in which case I will inform you, lest you should now or at any future time feel the smallest misgiving as to your own verdict in the matter.  This is very unlikely, I know, for I understand you were very decided; but still as soon as we have definite information—­if we get it—­you may wish to inform poor Mrs. Sarratt of your journey here.  I hope she is getting stronger.  She did indeed look very frail when I saw her last.

’Yours very truly,

‘ROBERT HOWSON.’

Since the receipt of that letter Bridget’s reflections had been more disagreeable than any she had yet grappled with.  In Nelly’s company the awfulness of what she had done did sometimes smite home to her.  Well, she had staked everything upon it, and the only possible course was to brazen it out.  That George should die, and die quickly—­without any return of memory or speech, was what she terribly and passionately desired.  In all probability