"Yes, dear?" she spoke softly. "I couldn't bear it any longer," said the voice of Louis. "I just had to waken you." She raised the gas, and her eyes blinked as she stared at him. His bedclothes were horribly disarranged. "Are you in pain?" she asked, smoothing the blankets. "No. But I'm so ill. I--I don't want to frighten you--" "The doctor said you'd feel ill. It's the shock, you know." She stroked his hand. He did indubitably look very ill. His appearance of woe, despair, and dreadful apprehension was pitiable in the highest degree. With a gesture of intense weariness he declined food, nor could she persuade him to take anything whatever. "You'll be ever so much better to-morrow. I'll sit up with you. You were bound to feel worse in the night." "It's more than shock that I've got," he muttered. "I say, Rachel, it's all up with me. I _know_ I'm done for. You'll have to do the best you can." The notion shot through her head that possibly, after all, the doctor might have misjudged the case. Suppose Louis were to die in the night? Suppose the morning found her a widow? The world was full of the strangest happenings.... Then she was herself again and immovably cheerful in her secret heart. She thought: "I can go through worse nights than this. One night, some time in the future, either he will really be dying or I shall. This night is nothing." And she held his hand and sat in her old place on his bed. The room was chilly. She decided that in five minutes she would light the gas-stove, and also make some tea with the spirit-lamp. She would have tea whether he still refused or not. His watch on the night-table showed half-past two. In about an hour the dawn would be commencing. She felt that she had reserves of force against any contingency, against any nervous strain. Then he said, "I say, Rachel." He was too ill to call her "Louise." "I shall make some tea soon," she answered. He went on: "You remember about that missing money--I mean before auntie died. You remember--" "Don't talk about that, dear," she interrupted him eagerly. "Why should you bother about that now?" In one instant those apparently exhaustless reserves of moral force seemed to have ebbed away. She had imagined herself equal to any contingency, and now there loomed a contingency which made her quail. "I've got to talk about that," he said in his weak and desperate voice. His bruised head was hollowed into the pillow, and he stared monotonously at the ceiling, upon which the paper screen of the gas threw a great trembling shadow. "That's why I wakened you. You don't know what the inside of my brain's like.... Why did you say to them you found the scullery door open that night? You know perfectly well it wasn't open." She could scarcely speak. "I--I--Louis don't talk about that now. You're too ill," she implored. "I know why you said it." "Be quiet!" she said sharply, and her voice broke. But he continued in the same tone--