Henry Hindes was in his night-shirt, sitting on, or rather leaning against, the side of the bed. He was not asleep; at least his eyes were wide open, but it was evident that he neither saw nor heard anything around him. The sweat was pouring off his face, and his hair was damp with it, but it did not appear to inconvenience him, as he stared wildly into the darkness and muttered to himself,-- ‘It was an accident, Jenny--you know it was an accident--I did not push you intentionally--How could I tell it would cause your death?--Why did you aggravate me so?--Why should you hate me?--_I_, who love you--love you--My God! don’t say it--I cannot bear it--cannot bear it! And to _him_, too--my rival--the man who stole you from me! Jenny! Jenny!--don’t look so--don’t speak so, or I shall push you over the cliff!--Ah! she is gone!--it is done! Why did I do it?--Why did I do it?--I have killed her, Jenny! My God! this is hell--hell--hell!’ He glared with his opium-laden eyes straight before him, and had just sense enough left to catch sight of Hannah’s white night-dress as she stood, horror-stricken, at the open doorway, through which a light streamed from her bedroom. ‘Ah!’ he screamed in terror, ‘don’t come near me! Don’t touch me--I didn’t mean to do it, Jenny! It was the devil prompted me to push you!--Have mercy! Don’t haunt me. Don’t haunt me, or you will drive me mad--mad--mad!’ He slid down upon his bare knees as he concluded, hiding his face in his hands, and Hannah had just strength left to withdraw herself and close and lock the door between them. She understood it all now! Her husband’s unaccountable grief and sleeplessness and irritable temper. He was pursued by an undying remorse. And for what? Oh! it was terrible, terrible! Hannah reached her bed, but it was only to sink down by the side of it, and pour out her soul in prayer for her wretched husband and herself. And when she was exhausted with prayer and weeping, she threw her dressing-gown around her, and sat down to consider what she ought to do about the dreadful truth that had been made known to her. Her husband was a murderer! There was no end served by disguising the horrid truth from herself. He had pushed sweet, darling Jenny Crampton over the Dover Cliffs. Oh! how could he have done it? How _could_ he have done it? Their pretty, loving Jenny! It was too awful to think of, but it was true! She had heard him confess it with his own lips! But the idea that she could desert him on that account, or deliver him up to justice on his own confession, never entered the wife’s mind. He was hers, and she was his, for better or worse; there must be no treachery between them. He had told his secret to the darkness; with the darkness it must remain!