‘Some one has been taking a siesta here without your permission,’ I said, jestingly; but she did not seem to take my remark as a jest. ‘It must be my good man,’ she answered, hurriedly, as she shook the mattress; ‘perhaps he came in here to lie down for a bit. This hot weather makes the best feel weak, sir.’ ‘Very true. And now, if you will accept me as a lodger, I will pay you my first week’s rent, and whilst I go back to the railway-station to fetch my valise, you must get me ready a chop or a steak, or anything that is most handy, for my dinner.’ All appeared to be satisfactory. My landlady assented to everything I suggested, and in another hour I was comfortably ensconced under her roof, had eaten my steak, and posted a letter to my wife, and felt very much in charity with all mankind. So I sat at the open window thinking how beautifully still and sweet all my surroundings were, and how much good work I should get through without fear of interruption or distraction. The office clerks had long gone home; the upper rooms were locked for the night; only an occasional patter along the wide uncarpeted staircase reminded me that I was not quite alone. Then I remembered the rats, and ‘The Origin of Dreams;’ and thinking it probable that my honest old couple retired to bed early, rang the bell to tell my landlady to be sure and leave me a good supply of candles. ‘You’re not going to sit up and write to-night, sir, are you?’ she inquired. ‘I am sure your rest would do you more good; you must be real tired.’ ‘Not at all, my good Mrs Bizzey’ (Did I say her name was Bizzey?), ‘I am as fresh as a daisy, and could not close my eyes. Besides, as your friends, the rats, seem to make so free in the house, I should burn a light any way to warn them they had better not come too near me.’ ‘Oh, I trust nothing will disturb you sir,’ she said, earnestly, as she withdrew to fetch the candles. I unpacked my book-box and piled the big volumes on a side table. How imposing they looked! But I had no intention of poring over them that night. ‘The Origin of Dreams’ required thought—deep and speculative thought; and how could I be better circumstanced to indulge in it than stationed at that open window, with a pipe in my mouth, looking up at the dark blue sky bespangled with stars, and listening (if I may be allowed to speak so paradoxically) to the silence—for there is a silence that can be heard?