The girl's heart was wrung at every turn. She lingered, however, till the last minute--almost till the April dark had fallen. When she reached the hall again, she stood a moment looking round its cold and gloom. First, with a start, she noticed a pile of torn envelopes and papers lying on a table, which had escaped her in the morning. The Squire must have thrown them down there in the early morning, just before starting on his journey. The small fact gave her a throb of strange joy--brought back the living presence. Then she noticed that the study door was open. A temptation seized her--drove her before it. Silence and solitude possessed the house. The servants were far away in the long rambling basement. Augustina was asleep with her nurse beside her. Laura went noiselessly across the hall. She pushed the door--she looked round his room. No change. The books, the crucifix, the pictures, all as before. But the old walls, and wainscots, the air of the room, seemed still to hold the winter. They struck chill. The same pile of books in daily use upon his table--a few little manuals and reprints--"The Spiritual Combat," the "Imitation," some sermons--the volume of "Acta Sanctorum" for the month. She could not tear herself from them. Trembling, she hung over them, and her fingers blindly opened a little book which lay on the top. It fell apart at a place which had been marked--freshly marked, it seemed to her. A few lines had been scored in pencil, with a date beside them. She looked closer and read the date of the foregoing Easter Eve. And the passage with its scored lines ran thus: "Drive far from us the crowd of evil spirits who strive to approach us; unloose the too firm hold of earthly things; _untie with Thy gentle and wounded hands the fibres of our hearts that cling so fast round human affections_; let our weary head rest on Thy bosom till the struggle is over, and our cold form falls back--dust and ashes." She stood a moment--looking down upon the book--feeling life one throb of anguish. Then wildly she stooped and kissed the pages. Dropping on her knees too, she kissed the arm of the chair, the place where his hand would rest. No one came--the solitude held. Gradually she got the better of her misery. She rose, replaced the book, and went. * * * * * The following night, very late, Laura again lay sleepless. But April was blowing and plashing outside. The high fell and the lonely farm seemed to lie in the very track of the storms, as they rushed from the south-west across the open moss to beat themselves upon the mountains. But the moon shone sometimes, and then the girl's restlessness would remind her of the open fell-side, of pale lights upon the distant sea, of cool blasts whirling among the old thorns and junipers, and she would long to be up and away--escaped from this prison where she could not sleep.