She said nothing, but cried bitterly. At last she sat down and sobbed out: “O George, George, you are in a rage with me; you are tired of me; you are disappointed with me. Oh! what shall I do, what _shall_ I do?” Poor child! her pretty curls fell over her face as she covered it with her long white hands. George was touched with pity in an instant, and his arms were round her neck. He kissed her fervently, and besought her not to think anything of what he had said. He took out his handkerchief, wiped her eyes tenderly, lifted one of her arms and put it round his neck as he pulled a chair towards him and sat down beside her. Nothing she loved like caresses! She knew what _their_ import was, though she could not follow his economical logic, and she clung to him, and buried her face on his shoulder. At that moment, as he drew her heavy brown tresses over him, smothered his eyes and mouth in them, and then looked down through them on the white, sweet beauty they shadowed, he forgot or overlooked everything, and was once more completely happy. Suddenly she released herself. “What shall we do to-night, George, the bedroom will be so damp?” He recovered himself, and admitted that they could not sleep there. There was the spare bedroom; but the wet had come in there too. “I will sleep at father’s, and you sleep at home too. We will have fires alight, and we shall be dry enough to-morrow. You be off now, my dear; I will see about it all.” So George had the fires alight, got in a man to help him, and they swept and scoured and aired till it was dark. In a day or two the plasterer could mend the ceiling. Priscilla had left, and, excepting the servant, who was upstairs, George was alone. He looked round, walked about—what was it? Was he tired? It could not be that; he was never tired. He left as soon as he could and went back to the shop. After telling the tale of the calamity which had befallen him he announced—it was now supper-time—that he was going to stay all night. Mother, father, and sister were delighted to have him—“It looked like old times again;” but George was not in much of a mood for talking, and at ten o’clock went upstairs; his early departure being, of course, set down to the worry he had gone through. He turned into bed. Generally speaking he thought no more of sleep than he did of breathing; it came as naturally as the air into his lungs; but what was this new experience? Half an hour, an hour, after he had laid down he was still awake, and worse than awake; for his thoughts were of a different cast from his waking thoughts; fearful forebodings; a horror of great darkness. He rose and bathed his head in cold water, and lay down again; but it was of no use, and he walked about his room. What an epoch is the first sleepless night—the night when the first wrench has been given us by the Destinies to loosen us from the love of life; when we have first said to ourselves that there are worse things than death!