‘My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves, we should not judge each other harshly. Sir Christopher himself has felt, since this trouble came upon him, that he has been too severe and obstinate.’ In this way--in these broken confessions and answering words of comfort--the hours wore on, from the deep black night to the chill early twilight, and from early twilight to the first yellow streak of morning parting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that night the bond that united his love for ever and alone to Caterina had acquired fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human relations that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection: every new day and night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration, for the love that is nourished by memories as well as hopes--the love to which perpetual repetition is not a weariness but a want, and to which a separated joy is the beginning of pain. The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a tramp of footsteps in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to affect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, ‘Maynard, are you going away?’ ‘No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and then you will go away too.’ ‘Never to the Manor again, O no! I shall live poorly, and get my own bread.’ ‘Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. But I wish you could go to sleep now. Try to rest quietly, and by-and-by you will perhaps sit up a little. God has kept you in life in spite of all this sorrow; it will be sinful not to try and make the best of His gift. Dear Tina, you will try;--and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once, you didn’t notice the poor little thing; but you _will_ notice her when she comes again, will you not?’ ‘I will try,’ whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her eyes.