And so the afternoon and evening passed, and the next day, the last of his stay, arrived. All day Catherine sought an opportunity of speaking with him alone. In vain! He was resolved to afford her none. He sedulously avoided her. As a last resort she wrote a note, requesting an interview, and sent it to him. She received an answer stating that his time for the day was all pre-engaged. And so this last day also passed. That night she completed her part in the preparations for his departure, and retired late to a sleepless bed. She heard him come in very late, and enter his room, which joined her own. At early dawn she arose and looked at the time-piece on her chamber mantle-shelf. It was but five o’clock. He was not to leave till ten. There were five precious hours left yet. And oh! how inestimably precious, if in them she could effect a reconciliation with her husband. They were like the last hours of a dying one, with salvation staked upon them. She felt that the crisis had come, that she must not falter now. She knelt and prayed for strength and courage, as we only pray a few times in life—with that impassioned earnestness of supplication that ever brings an angel down “strengthening” us. Then, encouraged, she arose, completed her simple toilet, and went down stairs to her morning duties. The breakfast hour was seven. And oh, she watched the clock as she, unjustly condemned to death, might watch in the last fleeting hours preceding execution—hoping, still hoping for some saving revelation. A little while after seven he came down stairs, entered the breakfast-room, and bowing with his usual cold greeting of— “Good-morning, madam,” sat down. She rang for the coffee, and then took her place at the head of the table.