penetration.  At length Jemima could stand it no longer, and left the room.  She went into the schoolroom, where the shutters were not closed, as it only looked into the garden.  She opened the window, to let the cool night air blow in on her hot cheeks.  The clouds were hurrying over the moon’s face in a tempestuous and unstable manner, making all things seem unreal; now clear out in its bright light, now trembling and quivering in shadow.  The pain at her heart seemed to make Jemima’s brain grow dull; she laid her head on her arms, which rested on the window-sill, and grew dizzy with the sick weary notion that the earth was wandering lawless and aimless through the heavens, where all seemed one tossed and whirling wrack of clouds.  It was a waking nightmare, from the uneasy heaviness of which she was thankful to be roused by Dick’s entrance.

“What, you are here, are you?  I have been looking everywhere for you.  I wanted to ask you if you have any spare money you could lend me for a few weeks?”

“How much do you want?” asked Jemima, in a dull, hopeless voice.

“Oh! the more the better.  But I should be glad of any trifle, I am kept so confoundedly short.”

When Jemima returned with her little store, even her careless, selfish brother was struck by the wanness of her face, lighted by the bed-candle she carried.

“Come, Mimie, don’t give it up.  If I were you, I would have a good try against Mrs. Denbigh.  I’ll send you the bonnet as soon as ever I get back to town, and you pluck up a spirit, and I’ll back you against her even yet.”

It seemed to Jemima strange—­and yet only a fitting part of this strange, chaotic world—­to find that her brother, who was the last person to whom she could have given her confidence in her own family, and almost the last person of her acquaintance to whom she could look for real help and sympathy, should have been the only one to hit upon the secret of her love.  And the idea passed away from his mind as quickly as all ideas not bearing upon his own self-interests did.

The night, the sleepless night, was so crowded and haunted by miserable images, that she longed for day; and when day came, with its stinging realities, she wearied and grew sick for the solitude of night.  For the next week, she seemed to see and hear nothing but what confirmed the idea of Mr. Farquhar’s decided attachment to Ruth.  Even her mother spoke of it as a thing which was impending, and which she wondered how Mr. Bradshaw would like; for his approval or disapproval was the standard by which she measured all things.

“Oh! merciful God,” prayed Jemima, in the dead silence of the night, “the strain is too great—­I cannot bear it longer—­my life—­my love—­the very essence of me, which is myself through time and eternity; and on the other side there is all-pitying Charity.  If she had not been what she is—­if she had shown any sign of triumph—­any knowledge of her prize—­if she had made any effort to gain his dear heart, I must have given way long ago, and taunted her, even if I did not tell others—­taunted her, even though I sank down to the pit the next moment.