were dark and congested; his mouth was open, and the tongue protruded between the black, swollen, mucous lips; his eyes were prominent and coldly staring.  The fact was that Mr. Baines had wakened up, and, being restless, had slid out partially from his bed and died of asphyxia.  After having been unceasingly watched for fourteen years, he had, with an invalid’s natural perverseness, taken advantage of Sophia’s brief dereliction to expire.  Say what you will, amid Sophia’s horror, and her terrible grief and shame, she had visitings of the idea:  he did it on purpose!

She ran out of the room, knowing by intuition that he was dead, and shrieked out, “Maggie,” at the top of her voice; the house echoed.

“Yes, miss,” said Maggie, quite close, coming out of Mr. Povey’s chamber with a slop-pail.

“Fetch Mr. Critchlow at once.  Be quick.  Just as you are.  It’s father—­”

Maggie, perceiving darkly that disaster was in the air, and instantly filled with importance and a sort of black joy, dropped her pail in the exact middle of the passage, and almost fell down the crooked stairs.  One of Maggie’s deepest instincts, always held in check by the stern dominance of Mrs. Baines, was to leave pails prominent on the main routes of the house; and now, divining what was at hand, it flamed into insurrection.

No sleepless night had ever been so long to Sophia as the three minutes which elapsed before Mr. Critchlow came.  As she stood on the mat outside the bedroom door she tried to draw her mother and Constance and Mr. Povey by magnetic force out of the wakes into the house, and her muscles were contracted in this strange effort.  She felt that it was impossible to continue living if the secret of the bedroom remained unknown one instant longer, so intense was her torture, and yet that the torture which could not be borne must be borne.  Not a sound in the house!  Not a sound from the shop!  Only the distant murmur of the wakes!

“Why did I forget father?” she asked herself with awe.  “I only meant to tell him that they were all out, and run back.  Why did I forget father?” She would never be able to persuade anybody that she had literally forgotten her father’s existence for quite ten minutes; but it was true, though shocking.

Then there were noises downstairs.

“Bless us!  Bless us!” came the unpleasant voice of Mr. Critchlow as he bounded up the stairs on his long legs; he strode over the pail.  “What’s amiss?” He was wearing his white apron, and he carried his spectacles in his bony hand.

“It’s father—­he’s—­” Sophia faltered.

She stood away so that he should enter the room first.  He glanced at her keenly, and as it were resentfully, and went in.  She followed, timidly, remaining near the door while Mr. Critchlow inspected her handiwork.  He put on his spectacles with strange deliberation, and then, bending his knees outwards, thus lowered his body so that he could examine John Baines point-blank.  He remained staring like this, his hands on his sharp apron-covered knees, for a little space; and then he seized the inert mass and restored it to the bed, and wiped those clotted lips with his apron.