In this feverish solitude one day dragged itself after another with awful monotony.  As they passed by, the only change they brought was that the sultry heat grew ever cooler, and the long days shorter.  The winter seemed inclined to set in early, and with unusual rigor, for a month before the usual time fires became necessary.  I put off lighting mine, for fear of the cost, until my sunless little room under the roof was almost like an ice-house.  A severe cold, which made me afraid of having to call in a doctor, compelled me to have a fire; and the burning of it, and the necessity of tending it, made it like a second person and companion in the lonely place.  Hour after hour I sat in front of it on my box, with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands, watching the changeful scenery of its embers, and the exquisite motion of the flames, and the upward rolling of the tiny columns of smoke, and the fiery, gorgeous colors that came and went with a breath.  To see the tongues of fire lap round the dull, black coal, and run about it, and feel it, and kindle it with burning touches, and never quit it till it was glowing and fervid, and aflame like themselves—­that was my sole occupation for hours together.

Think what a dreary life for a young girl!  I was as fond of companionship, and needed love, as much as any girl.  Was it strange that my thoughts dwelt somewhat dangerously upon the pleasant, peaceful days in Sark?

When I awoke in the morning to a voiceless, solitary, idle day, how could I help thinking of Martin Dobree, of Tardif, even of old Mother Renouf, with her wrinkled face and her significant nods and becks?  Martin Dobree’s pleasant face would come before me, with his eyes gleaming so kindly under his square forehead, and his lips moving tremulously with every change of feeling.  Had he gone back to his cousin Julia again, and were they married?  I ought not to feel any sorrow at that thought.  His path had run side by side with mine for a little while, but always with a great barrier between us; and now they had diverged, and must grow farther and farther apart, never to touch again.  Yet, how my father would have loved him had he known him!  How securely he would have trusted to his care for me!  But stop!  There was folly and wickedness in thinking that way.  Let me make an end of that.

There was no loneliness like that loneliness.  Twice a day I exchanged a word or two with the overworked drudge of a servant in the house where I lived; but I had no other voice to speak to me.  No wonder that my imagination sometimes ran in forbidden and dangerous channels.

When I was not thinking and dreaming thus, a host of anxieties crowded about me.  My money was melting away again, though slowly, for I denied myself every thing but the bare necessaries of life.  What was to become of me when it was all gone?  It was the old question; but the answer was as difficult to find as ever.  I was ready for any kind of work, but no chance of work came to me.  With neither work nor money, what was I to do?  What was to be the end of it?