It was necessary for Dinah to be in constant attendance on my Argus, and even to feed her, so helpless were her hands, with the mucilages which now formed her principal diet, by the order of some celebrated physician, who wrote his prescriptions without seeing his patient, after the form of the ancients, sending them daily through the hands of Mrs. Raymond.  Still those vigilant green eyes never faltered in their task, and lying where—­with the door opened between our chambers (as she tyrannically required it to be most of the time) she could command a view of almost every act of my life—­I found her scrutiny more unendurable than when she had at least feigned to be absorbed with her stocking-basket.  Ernie’s noise, too, disturbed her, and I was obliged to keep him constantly amused, for fear that her wrath might culminate in eternal banishment.

The days slid on—­November had passed through that exquisite phase of existence (which almost redeems it from the reproach cast upon it through all time, of being par excellence the gloomy month of the year), the sweet and balmy influences of which had reached us, even through the walls of our prison-house, in the shape of smoky sunshine, and balmy, odorous, and lingering blossoms, and was now asserting its traditional character with much angry bluster of sleet, and storm, and cutting wind.  It was Herod lamenting his Marianne slain by his own hand, and making others suffer the consequences of his regretted cruelty, his remorseful anguish.  It was the fierce Viking making wild wail over his dead Oriana.

No more to come until another year had done its work of resurrection and decay, the lovely Indian Summer slumbered under her mound of withered flowers and heaps of gorgeous leaves, unheeding all, or unconscious of the grief of her stern bridegroom.

Cold and bitter and bleak howled the November blast, and ruthlessly drove the fleet against the shivering panes, exposed without, though shielded within by Venetian folding shutters, on that gray morning, when a passing whisper from most unlovely and altogether unfaithful lips nerved me paradoxically to sudden resolution.

False as I knew old Dinah to be—­almost on principle—­still, I could not disregard the possible truth of her passing warning, given in broken whisper first as she poured out my tea and afterward prepared my bath.

“Honey, don’t you touch no tea nor coffee dis evening after Dinah goes oat ob here an’ de bolt am fetched home; jus’ make ’tence to drene it down, like, but don’t swaller one mortal drop, for dey is gwine to give you a dose of laudamy”—­nodding sagaciously and peering into the teapot as she interpolated aloud; “sure enough, it is full ob grounds, honey!  (I heerd ’um say dat wid my own two blessed yers), for de purpose of movin’ you soun’ asleep up to dat bell-tower (belfry, b’leves dey call it sometimes)—­he! he! he! next door, in dat big house, war de res’ on ’em libs,