to him.  Perhaps all this was by intention, by the very grace of God!  The Virgin might have interceded on her behalf, for is it not said that whoever wears the scapular of Our Lady of Mount Carmel cannot lose his soul?  But for the last two years, for more than two years, she has not worn her scapular.  The strings had broken, and they had not been mended.  She had intended to buy another, but had not been able to bring herself to do so, so hypocritical did it seem.

It might be that these dreadful nights of insomnia had been sent so that she might have an opportunity of realising the wickedness of her life, and the risk she incurred of losing her immortal soul.  She dare not have recourse to the sleeping draught, and must endure perhaps another sleepless night.  If they had been sent, as she thought they were, for a purpose, she must not dare to hush, by artificial means, the sense God had awakened in her; to do so would be like flying in the face of Providence.  She had never suffered from sleeplessness before, and could not think that this insomnia was accidental.  No, she dare not have recourse to sleeping draughts, at least not till she had been to confession.  If afterwards she did not get to sleep, it would be different.  The fear arose in her of taking too much, of dying in her sleep.  If she were to awake in hell!  And that evening, when Merat reminded her of the draught, she said it was to be left on the table, and that she would take it if she required it.

The darkness could not hide the slim bottle corked with a slim blond cork, and so clear was the vision that she could read the label through the darkness.  It was only partially gummed on the bottom, and she could read the pale writing.  “To be taken before bedtime.”  The temptation struck through the darkness, sweet and dreamily seductive it entered her brain.  She was tempted as by a dark, dreamless river; hushed in an unconscious darkness she would be upon that river, floating through a long, winding night towards a dim, very distant day.  If she were to drink, darkness would sink upon her, and all this visible world, the continual sight of which she felt must end in lunacy, would pass from her.  So great was the temptation that she did not dare to get out of bed and put the bottle away—­if she did she must drink it, so she lay quite still, her face turned against the wall, trying to find courage in the thought that God had imposed the torture of these sleepless nights upon her in order that she might be saved from the eternal sleeplessness of hell.

Mistakes are made in the preparation of medicines, but if no mistake had been made, a change in her health might unfit her for so large a dose, and if through either of these chances she were to die in her sleep, there was no question that she must awake in hell.  She did not dare to go to the draught, but lay quite still, her head close against the wall, praying for darkness, crying for relief from this too fierce mentality; it seemed to be eating up the very substance of her brain.