He did not mind the muscular exertion, the painful fatigue of back and limbs unaccustomed to hard work, but the dust, the dirt, the stench, formed a purgatory to his sensitive nerves. That first night, when he was on his way home with Adler, he offered to lend the man money to get his goods and chattels out of pawn, and the latter thankfully accepted the help. He went to his attic, and, first of all, took a sponge bath and changed all his clothing. He felt as if he could scarcely live and breathe until he had done that. Then he kindled his fire, cooked his chop, boiled his coffee, and ate his supper. When he had washed up his few dishes and put them away, he snuffed his candle, lighted another, set them on the table, and sat down to read. Through all this he had heard, and continued to hear, the monotonous thumper-thumper-thumper-thumper of his neighbor’s sewing machine. She did not come near him, however, although he felt sure that she would come if he should call her, and he felt less lonesome on that account. About ten o’clock the first fruits of his hard work began to appear, in the shape of great fatigue and drowsiness. He went to bed, and, despite mental trouble, slept soundly—slept until the movements of his neighbor about her room waked him up, only in time to get a hurried breakfast and hasten off to his work, to escape being docked a quarter of a day for losing one hour. This is a fair sample of many days and nights spent by young Harcourt. He allowed himself no indulgences, not even a newspaper, so he never saw the advertisements for himself, nor, if he had, could he have answered them. He determined that at the end of one month he would write to his mother, or go to see her. He thought that for one month she would be living in comfort, and even in luxury, at Goblin Hall, and that she would excuse his silence in his supposed honeymoon at the Isle of Storms. His honeymoon! Oh! Father of Mercies! was ever mortal man wounded as he was? His mother would be in blissful ignorance of his real position. There would be no one to tell her. Hanson would not, and Roma could not. Roma would be Hanson’s closely watched prisoner until he should have won her love or conquered her into submission, and then he would take her on his yacht to Europe. Oh, the infernal thought! And the traitor who had betrayed her to this captivity! Why did not some thunderbolt from heaven fall upon his accursed head? He could not think of Roma’s condition and keep his senses. He fled the subject. He would write to his mother, or visit her at the end of the month, and he would explain, or not, as circumstances should seem to indicate. Such was his resolution. But before the month ended a catastrophe prevented the execution of his plans.