In this way—­in these broken confessions and answering words of comfort—­the hours wore on, from the deep black night to the chill early twilight, and from early twilight to the first yellow streak of morning parting the purple cloud.  Mr. Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that night the bond that united his love for ever and alone to Caterina had acquired fresh strength and sanctity.  It is so with the human relations that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection:  every new day and night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration, for the love that is nourished by memories as well as hopes—­the love to which perpetual repetition is not a weariness but a want, and to which a separated joy is the beginning of pain.

The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a tramp of footsteps in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring.  These sounds seemed to affect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, ’Maynard, are you going away?’

’No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and then you will go away too.’

’Never to the Manor again, O no!  I shall live poorly, and get my own bread.’

’Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best.  But I wish you could go to sleep now.  Try to rest quietly, and by-and-by you will perhaps sit up a little.  God has kept you in life in spite of all this sorrow; it will be sinful not to try and make the best of His gift.  Dear Tina, you will try;—­and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once, you didn’t notice the poor little thing; but you will notice her when she comes again, will you not?’

‘I will try,’ whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her eyes.

By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the clouds, and shining with pleasant morning warmth through the little leaded window, Caterina was asleep.  Maynard gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcas with the good news, and made his way to the village inn, with a thankful heart that Tina had been so far herself again.  Evidently the sight of him had blended naturally with the memories in which her mind was absorbed, and she had been led on to an unburthening of herself that might be the beginning of a complete restoration.  But her body was so enfeebled—­her soul so bruised—­that the utmost tenderness and care would be necessary.  The next thing to be done was to send tidings to Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel; then to write and summon his sister, under whose care he had determined to place Caterina.  The Manor, even if she had been wishing to return thither, would, he knew, be the most undesirable home for her at present:  every scene, every object there, was associated with still unallayed anguish.  If she were domesticated for a time with his mild gentle sister, who had a peaceful home and a prattling little boy, Tina might attach herself anew to life, and recover, partly at least, the shock that had been given to her constitution.  When he had written his letters and taken a hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle again, on his way to Sloppeter, where he would post them, and seek out a medical man, to whom he might confide the moral causes of Caterina’s enfeebled condition.