There was a strain, too, in Lucy’s terror lest Hugh should lack something in being thrown wholly upon her failing resources; she would not rest if she thought he wanted a game; she would not even relapse into brief silences such as she often craved. No, she had goaded herself on to chatter, and make fun, and tell stories! Then there had been nobody to remember and provide the little dainties—the pleasant table-surprises which do so much to stimulate a failing appetite. Until Miss Latimer had come to stay, all that Lucy cared for was that Hugh should get his milk, and his puddings, and his fruit. And somehow she herself turned from all these. And there was nothing tempting in their stead. Also Lucy had started on her new laborious, lonely life after the agony of Charlie’s illness and the supreme effort made for his departure. She had been at the very bottom of her physical powers and nervous energy. For six months she had been steadily giving out and taking nothing in; nothing but nameless little worries had filled in the interstices of work and anxiety. Looking in her glass, she could see her face was thin and wan; she noticed one or two silver threads in her hair. Anybody else looking so, she would know to be ill, but she would not own any breakdown in herself. Ill! Was not her task already half accomplished, and had not Charlie’s journey prospered beyond their hopes? If only she had been able to enjoy one week of the bracing breezes off Deal, and of the wholesome presence of Mrs. May! If only the Brands’ house had been one where she was sure to find hearty welcome, and where she could have spoken out all the imaginings and horrors that began to haunt her. But from nobody in the world was it more necessary to hide her trembling spirits and collapsing forces than from her sister Florence, who would have seen in them only an occasion for criticism and censure, and for counsels for whose carrying out she would offer no furtherance. It was at this time that Lucy first had a dream—which she often had afterwards—and which, worse still, became a sort of waking vision, which would open before her if ever she dared to remain for one moment without active occupation for brain or hand. In that sleeping dream, and in that waking “vision,” she saw herself walking on a dreary road, between a dead wall and an open wold. Night was falling fast; wind and rain were beating upon her; her limbs were failing, and still she struggled on, and as she went, she seemed to wail, “Alone! Alone! Alone!” The dream always broke off there; the vision went no further. She never knew how it ended.