"None but Percy. And I am afraid she has got tired of him. He's a good fellow, though a bit of a puppy. That'll wear off. I wish he would take a fancy to the army, now." I made no reply, but I thought the more. It seemed to me that to get tired of Percy was the most natural proceeding that could be adopted with regard to him and all about him. But men judge men--and women, women--hardly. "I'll tell you what I will do," said the colonel. "I will ask Mr. Bloomfield, the schoolmaster, and his wife, to dine with us. It's no use asking anybody else that I can think of. But they have no family, and I dare say they can put off their own Christmas dinner till to-morrow. They have but one maid, and she can dine with our servants. They are very respectable people, I assure you." The colonel always considered his plans thoroughly, and then acted on them at once. He rose. "A capital idea!" I said, as he disappeared. I went up to look for Adela. She was not in the drawing-room. I went up again, and tapped at the door of her room. "Come in," she said, in a listless voice. I entered. "How are you now, Adela?" I asked. "Thank you, uncle," was all her reply. "What is the matter with you, my child?" I said, and drew a chair near hers. She was half reclining, with a book lying upside down on her knee. "I would tell you at once, uncle, if I knew," she answered very sweetly, but as sadly. "I believe I am dying; but of what I have not the smallest idea." "Nonsense!" I said. "You're not dying." "You need not think to comfort me that way, uncle; for I think I would rather die than not." "Is there anything you would like?" "Nothing. There is nothing worth liking, but sleep." "Don't you sleep at night?" "Not well.--I will tell you all I know about it.--Some six weeks ago, I woke suddenly one morning, very early--I think about three o'clock--with an overpowering sense of blackness and misery. Everything I thought of seemed to have a core of wretchedness in it. I fought with the feeling as well as I could, and got to sleep again. But the effect of it did not leave me next day. I said to myself: 'They say "morning thoughts are true." What if this should be the true way of looking at things?' And everything became grey and dismal about me. Next morning it was just the same. It was as if I had waked in the middle of some chaos over which God had never said: 'Let there be light.' And the next day was worse. I began to see the bad in everything--wrong motives--and self-love--and pretence, and everything mean and low. And so it has gone on ever since. I wake wretched every morning. I am crowded with wretched, if not wicked thoughts, all day. Nothing seems worth anything. I don't care for anything." "But you love somebody?" "I hope I love my father. I don't know. I don't feel as if I did." "And there's your cousin Percy." I confess this was a feeler I put out.