fallen into a doze, in the chair by the bed.
She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still.
The table stood in the same place, close by
the bedside, and on it, in its real proportions
and appearance, was the shape so often
repeated.

He thought he saw the curtain move. He
looked again, and he was sure it moved.
He saw a hand come forth, and grope about
a little. Then the curtain moved more
perceptibly, and the woman in the bed put it
back, and sat up.

With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so
heavy and large, she looked all round the
room, and passed the corner where he slept in
his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner,
and she put her hand over them as a shade,
while she looked into it. Again they went
all round the room, scarcely heeding Rachael
if at all, and returned to that corner. He
thought, as she once more shaded them—
not so much looking at him, as looking
for him with a brutish instinct that he
was there—that no single trace was left in
those debauched features, or in the mind
that went along with them, of the woman he
had married eighteen years before. But that
he had seen her come to this by inches, he
never could have believed her to be the
same.

All this time, as if a spell were on him, he
was motionless and powerless, except to
watch her.

Stupidly dozing, or communing with her
incapable self about nothing, she sat for a
little while with her hands at her ears, and
her head resting on them. Presently, she
resumed her staring round the room. And
now, for the first time, her eyes stopped at
the table with the bottles on it.

Straightway she turned her eyes back to
his corner, with the defiance of last night,
and, moving very cautiously and softly,
stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a
mug into the bed, and sat for a while
considering which of the two bottles she should
choose. Finally, she laid her insensate grasp
upon the bottle that had swift and certain
death in it, and, before his eyes, pulled out
the cork with her teeth.

Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had
he power to stir. If this be real, and her
allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael,
wake!

She thought of that, too. She looked at
Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously,
poured out the contents. The draught was at
her lips. A moment and she would be past
all help, let the whole world wake and come
about her with its utmost power. But, in
that moment Rachael started up with a
suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck
her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had
the cup.

Stephen broke out of his chair. " Rachael,
am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo'
night!"

"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep
myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the
bells."

The wind brought the sounds of the church
clock to the window. They listened, and it
struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw
how pale she was, noted the disorder of her
hair, and the red marks of fingers on her
forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight
and hearing had been awake. She held the
cup in her hand even now.

"I thought it must be near three," she
said, calmly pouring from the cup into the
basin, and steeping the linen as before. "I
am thankful I stayed! 'Tis done now, when I
have put this on. There! And now she's
quiet again. The few drops in the basin I'll
pour away, for 'tis bad stuff to leave about,
though ever so little of it." As she spoke, she
drained the basin into the ashes of the fire,
and broke the bottle on the hearth.

She had nothing to do, then, but to cover
herself with her shawl before going out into
the wind and rain.

"Thou'lt let me walk wi' thee at this hour,
Rachael?"

"No, Stephen. 'Tis but a minute and I'm
home."

"Thou'rt not fearfo'; " he said it in a low
voice, as they went out at the door; " to leave
me alone wi' her!"

As she looked at him, saying " Stephen?"
he went down on his knee before her, on the
poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl
to his lips.

"Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless
thee!"

"I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy
poor friend. Angels are not like me.
Between them, and a working woman fu' of
faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little
sister is among them, but she is changed."

She raised her eyes for a moment as she
said the words; and then they fell again, in
all their gentleness and mildness, on his
face.

"Thou changest me from bad to good.
Thou mak'st me humbly wishfo' to be more
like thee, and fearfo' to lose thee when this
life is ower, an' a' the muddle cleared awa'.
Thou'rt an Angel; it may be, thou hast saved
my soul alive!"

She looked at him, on his knee at her feet,
with her shawl still in his hand, and the
reproof on her lips died away when she saw
the working of his face.

"I coom home desp'rate. I coom home
wi'out a hope, and mad wi' thinking that when
I said a word o' complaint, I was reckoned a
onreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had a
fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I
never hurt a livin' creetur: but, happenin' so
suddenly upon't, I thowt, ' How can I say
what I might ha' done to mysen, or her, or
both! '"

She put her two hands on his mouth, with
a face of terror, to stop him from saying