Howard, utterly wearied out, would go to bed, and sink into sleep, sleep so profound that it seemed like descending into some deep and oblivious tide; then a current of misery would mingle with his dreams, a sense of unutterable depression; and then he would suddenly wake in the grip of fear, formless and bodiless fear.  The smallest sound in the house, the creaking of a door, a footfall, would set his heart beating with fierce hammer strokes.  He would light his candles, wander restlessly about, gaze out from his window into the blackness of the garden, where the trees outlined themselves against the dark sky, pierced with stars; or he would try to read, but wholly in vain.  No thought, no imagination seemed to have any meaning for him, in the presence of that raging dread.  Had he, he wondered, come in sight of the ultimate truth of life?  The pain he suffered seemed to him the strongest thing in the world, stronger than love, stronger than death.  The thick tides of the night swept past him thus, till the light began to outline the window crannies; and then there was a new day to face, with failing brain and shattered strength.

The only comfort he received was in the presence of his aunt.  She alone seemed strong, almost serene, till he wondered if she was not hard.  She did not encourage him to speak of his fears:  she talked quietly about ordinary things, not demanding an answer; she saw the doctors, whom Howard could not bear to see, and told him their report.  The fear changed its character as the days went on; Maud would live, they thought; but to what extent she would regain her strength they could not say, while her mental powers seemed in abeyance.

Mr. Sandys often looked in, but he seemed at first helpless in Howard’s presence.  Howard used to bestir himself to talk to him, with a sickening sense of unreality.  Mr. Sandys took a very optimistic view of Maud’s case; he assured Howard that he had seen the same thing a dozen times; she had great reserves of strength, he believed; it was but nature insisting upon rest and quiet.  His talk became a sort of relief to Howard, because he refused to admit any possibility of ultimate disaster.  No tragedy could keep Mr. Sandys silent; and Howard began to be aware that the Vicar must have thought out a series of topics to talk to him about, and even prepared the line of conversation beforehand.  Jack had been sent for at the crisis, but when the imminent danger lessened, Howard suggested that he should go back to Cambridge, in which Jack gratefully acquiesced.

One day Mrs. Graves came suddenly in upon Howard, as he sate drearily trying to write some letters, and said, “There is a great improvement this morning.  I went in to see her, and she has come back to herself; she mentioned your name, and the doctor says you can see her for a few minutes; she must not talk, but she is herself.  You may just come and sit by her for a few minutes; it will be best to come at once.”