It is accounted a part of the machinery of invention when, in a story, several coincident circumstances, that apart, would have had no noticeable result, bear down together, with a nice and sure calculation upon some catastrophe or _denouement_ that develops itself therefrom. Last night, a man--an employee in Mr. Rushleigh's factory--had been kept awake by one of his children, taken suddenly ill. A slight matter--but it has to do with our story. Last night, also, Faith--Paul's second letter just received--had lain sleepless for hours, fighting the old battle over, darkly, of doubt, pity, half-love, and indecision. She had felt, or had thought she felt--thus, or so--in the days that were past. Why could she not be sure of her feeling now? The new wine in the old bottles--the new cloth in the old garment--these, in Faith's life, were at variance. What satisfied once, satisfied no longer. Was she to blame? What ought she to do? There was a seething--a rending. Poor heart, that was likely to be burst and torn--wonderingly, helplessly--in the half-comprehended struggle! So it happened, that, tired with all this, sore with its daily pressure and recurrence, this moment of strange peace came over her, and soothed her into rest. She laid herself back, there, on the broad, soft, old-fashioned sofa, and with the river breeze upon her brow, and the song of its waters in her ears, and the deadened hum of the factory rumbling on--she fell asleep. How long it had been, she could not tell; she knew not whether it were evening, or midnight, or near the morning; but she felt cold and cramped; everything save the busy river was still, and the daylight was all gone, and stars out bright in the deep, moonless sky, when she awoke. Awoke, bewilderedly, and came slowly to the comprehension that she was here alone. That it was night--that nobody could know it--that she was locked up here, in the great dreary mill. She raised herself upon the sofa, and sat in a terrified amaze. She took out her watch, and tried to see, by the starlight, the time. The slender black hands upon its golden face were invisible. It ticked--it was going. She knew, by that, it could not be far beyond midnight, at the most. She was chilly, in her white dress, from the night air. She went to the open window, and looked out from it, before she drew it down. Away, over the fields, and up and down the river, all was dark, solitary. Nobody knew it--she was here alone.