The morning succeeding this dissipation, found Verona lying on her bed racked with a headache and fever; she was unable to rise, and lay prone, fervently hoping that she was going to be very ill and die. In the midst of these miserable reflections, Pussy burst in to announce: "Rona, this is Sunday; we cannot all fit into the victoria, but you and Dominga and mother must go to the cantonment church; there is a grand parade--you will see the officers!" "I cannot stir," protested Verona; "my head aches so dreadfully." "Ah," coming over and taking her hand, "so you have fever. Now I wonder how you got thatt?" (By midnight rambling on the river banks when the air was full of mist and malaria.) For two long days Verona remained in her room, her head burning, her bones racked with pain. She was driven nearly distraught by affectionate Pussy's well-meant attendance and tireless chatter, by Dominga, who sat upon the bed and poured forth a stream of questions (questions respecting dress, deportment, hair-dressing, letter-writing, and the manners and customs of society at home); by Nicky, whose carpentering was close at hand, and by the ceaseless barking of the Trotters' pariah. On the third night she got up--finding herself alone--put on a dressing-gown and slippers, and staggered about the room; then she tottered out to contemplate the river. Oh, how cool it looked! And she was burning--her veins ran fire. How delightful to slip into it, and thus end her life; she was useless now to herself--or any one. From her former existence she was separated by a great gulf; her new existence was intolerable. To her relations she was an encumbrance, and to her they were a nightmare. She stole further and stared about her. There was the light in the office window; between it and her a stooping head. The recent rains had filled the Jurra to its brim. As it flowed past muttering to itself in the moonlight it looked most enticing. The river spirit seemed to whisper in her ear with seductive, rippling murmur: "Come with me! Come with me!" Only a little choking feeling and all would be over! Drowning, people said, was such an easy death. "Why wait?" urged the rippling river; in two minutes from this very time, she might be elsewhere, safely landed on the other shore. She must cross the River of Death sometime--why not now? It would not be wrong; on the contrary, it would be a blessed relief to every one, including herself. Oh, why should people speak of suicide with bated breath and horror? "Oh, it is not wrong," she said aloud; "God knows all. He will forgive me. God pardon me and give me rest," she exclaimed, and raising her arms, she stepped down to the water's brink; suddenly a boat shot up close to the steps, a white figure rose before her, a firm, peremptory hand was laid on her wrist. "Surely you would not bathe at this hour?" remonstrated a man's voice. She drew a long, shuddering breath and moaned: "Oh, let me go! Let me go!"