Just then the village omnibus stopped at the door, and Adelaide ran for a moment to show her mother how she looked, then gathering up the folds of her rich lace skirt, and throwing on her shawl, she entered the carriage and was soon riding toward the scene of gayety, while Alice Warren was hurrying home, a nameless terror creeping into her heart, and vaguely whispering that the morrow, for which she had been so anxious, might bring her a sorrow such as orphans only know. CHAPTER IX. THE FIGURE ON THE HEARTHSTONE. For a while after Alice left him, Mr. Warren lay perfectly quiet, trying to number the minutes, by counting each tick of the clock, and wondering if it were not time for Alice to return. While thus engaged he fell asleep, and when at last he woke there was a death-like faintness at his heart; his lips were dry and parched, and he felt a strong desire for water with which to quench his burning thirst. “Alice,” he said feebly, “Alice, is that you? are you here?” but to his call there came no answer, and throughout the room there was heard no sound save the steady ticking of the clock. Why then did the blind man raise himself upon his elbow and roll his sightless eyes around the silent apartment. Did he hear aught in the deep stillness? He thought he did—ay, he was sure he did, and again he called: “Alice, Alice, are you here?” But Alice made him no reply, and as the minutes went by, the sick man grew delirious, talking of the past, which seemed present with him now. Then, as reason for a moment returned, he moaned: “Oh, Alice, will you never come? The fire is going out and I am growing cold. Oh, must I die alone at last?” No, not alone; for, crouched upon the hearthstone, there sat a human form. It was the figure of a man—a dark, hard-featured man; and often, as the wailing cry came from the humble bed, it bowed its head upon its hands and wept. Carefully, stealthily through the door it had come while Mr. Warren slept, and the deep black eyes, which glowed at first like coals of living fire, grew dim with tears as, glancing hurriedly around the room, they saw how poor it was. “Isn’t there somebody here with me?” the sick man said at last, as his quick ear caught the sound of breathing. “Speak, isn’t there somebody here?” he continued, while the figure on the hearthstone glided noiselessly to the bedside, where it stood erect, gazing pitifully upon the white, worn face which, with the lamp-light shining on it, seemed of a deathly hue.