It was past ten o'clock when Timbs tottered home, and threw himself on the bed. The children, even Molly and Patty, were asleep, tired out. The new baby never stirred; the drunkard lay like a log, and the dead woman rested best of all. The moon shone in on the white face of the dead, on the bloated face of the drunkard, on the evil faces of the children, who might have been looking like little angels just now but for his sin. The moon passed on, and for a short time the room was in darkness; then the twilight before the dawn appeared, making objects ghastly and uncertain; then the dawn, then the full light of day. Contrary to his wont, Timbs was the first to wake. His head ached less than usual that morning, his brain was less confused; in short, he was more himself, and more capable of understanding and taking in the scene he was about to witness. He had been dreaming, in a confused sort of way, of his wife--of his wife as she used to be years ago. A pretty, rosy-faced woman was Sally Timbs in those days, and Timbs was proud of her. In his dream, which only lasted a few moments, he had recrossed the abyss, and stood once more on the old solid ground. In his dream, he was back again in the days when the Dolphin did not know him, nor he the Dolphin. He had a comfortable home, and Molly and Patty were pretty children, with curling hair and bright faces. He awoke from this dream with the word "wife" on his lips. I think, had she been alive then he would have given her a kind word. Would to God his dream had come to him yesterday! He said "Wife," and then lay still; for a brief half-instant, after awaking, he lay still--he had really forgotten that he was not what he dreamed he was, a prosperous and successful man: when the knowledge returned to him, which of course it did very quickly, he still lay without moving; he was busy sending back the dream, which had been pleasant, but was now hideous, into some far recesses of his memory. Then he moaned uneasily, said "Wife" in a harsher key: his morning headache was returning to him; she should get up and make him a cup of tea. Why did not she stir? He saw her outline quite distinct under the thin counterpane. How sound she was sleeping! He was about to give her a push--a push a trifle less hard than usual, but still a push--when something, he knew not what, seemed to stay his hand; he sat up and looked at her. When Timbs looked at his dead wife, he also looked all his sins full in the face. He knew instantly what had happened. He darted out of bed, and fell on his knees, not to pray--he had never prayed in his life--but because he trembled so, he could not stand. The dead face, pinched, drawn, and white, had a fascination for him.