But she looked at the Boudoir advertisement every day. And it was not long before she saw that another venture was in preparation. And she held more skeins of wool, and watched with veiled eagerness this advertisement develop like its predecessor. Recently the play had been; produced, and she had read the notice in Mrs. Kincaid's presence. When she finished it she guessed that Carew's hopes were over; unless he had a great deal more money than she supposed, the experiment at the Boudoir would see; it exhausted. There was not much said for his performance, either; he was dismissed in an indifferent sentence, like his wife. High praise of his acting might have led to London engagements, but his hopes seemed to have miscarried as manager and as actor too. When Kincaid went round to the house one evening, the servant told him his mother had; gone to her room, and that Miss Brettan was sitting with her. "Say I'm here, please, and ask if I may go up." Mary came down the stairs as he spoke. "Ah, doctor," she said; "Mrs. Kincaid has gone to bed." "So I hear. What's the matter with her?" "Only neuralgia; she has had it all day. She has just fallen asleep." "Then I had better not go up to see her?" "I don't think I would. I have just come down to get a book." "Are you going to sit with her?" "Yes; she may wake and want something." They stood speaking in the hall, outside the parlour door. "Where is your book?" he said. "Inside. I am sorry you have come round for nothing; she'll be so disappointed when she hears about it. May I tell her you'll come again to-morrow?" "Yes, I'll look in some time during the day, if it's only for a moment. I think I'll sit down awhile before I go." "Will you?" she said. "I beg your pardon." She opened the door, and he followed her into the room. "You won't mind my leaving you?" she asked; "I don't want to stay away, in case she does wake." It was nearly dark in the parlour; the lamp had not been lighted, and the fire was low. A little snow whitened the laburnum-tree that was visible through the window. It was an evening in January, and Mary had been in Westport now nearly two years. "Can you see to find it?" he said. "Where did you leave it?" "It was on the sideboard; Ellen must have moved it, I suppose. I'll ask her where she's put it." "No, don't do that; I'll light the lamp." She lifted the globe while he struck a match. It was his last, and it went out. "Never mind," he said; "we'll get a light from the fire." "Oh," she exclaimed, "but I'm giving you so much trouble; you had better let me call the girl!" A dread of what might happen in this darkness was coming over her. "You had better let me call the girl," she repeated. "Try if you can get a light with this first," he said--"try there, where it's red." She bent over the grate, the twist of paper in one hand, and the other resting on the mantelpiece. He leant beside her, stirring the ashes with his foot.