“I beg your pardon, sir. I was ashamed of having intruded on you, and I thought you would rather be left alone. I thought—I thought—-” hesitated the old man, “that you might like to go into the mill, for the night’s cold out o’ doors.” “Thank you, Rogers. I won’t now. I thought you had been in bed. How do you come to be out so late?” “You see, sir, when I’m in any trouble, it’s no use to go to bed. I can’t sleep. I only keep the old ’oman wakin’. And the key o’ the mill allus hangin’ at the back o’ my door, and knowin’ it to be a good place to—to—shut the door in, I came out as soon as she was asleep; but I little thought to see you, sir.” “I came to find you, not thinking how the time went. Catherine Weir is gone home.” “I am right glad to hear it, poor woman. And perhaps something will come out now that will help us.” “I do not quite understand you,” I said, with hesitation. But Rogers made no reply. “I am sorry to hear you are in trouble to-night. Can I help you?” I resumed. “If you can help yourself, sir, you can help me. But I have no right to say so. Only, if a pair of old eyes be not blind, a man may pray to God about anything he sees. I was prayin’ hard about you in there, sir, while you was on your knees o’ the other side o’ the door.” I could partly guess what the old man meant, and I could not ask him for further explanation. “What did you want to see me about?” I inquired. He hesitated for a moment. “I daresay it was very foolish of me, sir. But I just wanted to tell you that—our Jane was down here from the Hall this arternoon——” “I passed her on the bridge. Is she quite well?” “Yes, yes, sir. You know that’s not the point.” The old man’s tone seemed to reprove me for vain words, and I held my peace. “The captain’s there again.” An icy spear seemed to pass through my heart. I could make no reply. The same moment a cold wind blew on me from the open door of the mill. Although Lear was of course right when he said, “The tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there,” yet it is also true, that sometimes, in the midst of its greatest pain, the mind takes marvellous notice of the smallest things that happen around it. This involves a law of which illustrations could be plentifully adduced from Shakespeare himself, namely, that the intellectual part of the mind can go on working with strange independence of the emotional. From the door of the mill, as from a sepulchral tavern, blew a cold wind like the very breath of death upon me, just when that pang shot, in absolute pain, through my heart. For a wind had arisen from behind the mill, and we were in its shelter save where a window behind and the door beside me allowed free passage to the first of the coming storm.