When Roderick had written his letter he fell into a long and deep sleep, and it was daylight before he awoke. He was calmer in mind than he had been since he was taken ill, but it was the stillness of exhaustion. His fevered thoughts had been labouring up and down a never-ending gamut of feeling, like a prisoner tramping hopelessly up a revolving wheel, ever the same mountain of misery and despair rising before him, toil to surmount it as he might. He had climbed and climbed unceasingly--purposeless and hopeless, unable to stop, till at length, worn out, he had, as it were, fallen back in complete prostration. His waking was like that of one who has fallen from a height--stunned, the returning of far-ebbed consciousness was slow, and he would, if he could, have pushed it back again, and returned to oblivion. He closed his eyes and turned from the light, courting the retreating footsteps of beneficent sleep, but that gentle healer refused to be detained, and he was awake. By-and-by he saw his letter carried away to its address, and he set himself to wait patiently for the return of his messenger, some time in the afternoon. The rheumatic symptoms which had added greatly to his unrest, the day before, were abated, and his medical adviser expressed strong hope of being able to remove them altogether; but the distress in his chest had increased, his breathing was laboured and painful, threatening to develop into a serious attack. The surgeon looked round the room, it was not a promising sick-room for an affection of the lungs. The walls, where they could be seen behind the book shelves, were stained with moisture; there was the cold earthen floor beneath the carpet, and a pervading flavour of mouldy dampness through the room, which seemed to grow only more perceptible when more fuel was piled on the hearth. When the weather was dry the windows could be opened, and with the help of a bright fire, a moderately sweet atmosphere could be obtained after a time; but whenever rain without necessitated the closing of the windows, the stuffy savour of mouldiness again took possession of the place. Roderick lay and waited. He tried to read, but his eyes soon grew weary, and his thoughts would not fix themselves on the page, though he tried one book after another. It pained his chest to converse, and he could only possess his soul in patience, and wait Joseph's return. But Joseph came not. Noon passed, the shadows crept round and lengthened, but still no sign. It might be that Sophia required time to consider his letter. In that there was at least this much of hope, that if she had become engaged to the Englishman there would have been no occasion for her to delay in saying so. He grew restless as the afternoon advanced, and by evening was so flushed and increasingly feverish that they gave him a composing draught, and so got him to sleep.