I told her that she was forgiven. I cooled her forehead with water, and at length laid her upon the bed. She clung to me piteously as I was leaving. "Kiss me good night," she murmured. I had not felt that I could kiss her, but I stooped and touched her slightly on the brow, at the root of the curls. Then I left her, feeling all the way the clutch of her little fingers on my arm. * * * * * As I slipped up to my room, I had to pass the drawing-room door; it was ajar, and I caught a glimpse of them all as they sat at the card-table under the green-shaded lamp. "Honours divided, Miss Seymour, honours divided," said the vicar; and as I slowly made my way upstairs I heard the clatter of teacups and Mrs. Rayner's thin laugh. I went past the room I had shared with Gabriel, and made my way to the topmost floor, to the room that was formerly mine. It was in disorder, and nearly bare. I lighted a candle, but the sight of the dreariness oppressed me; I therefore blew it out again, and leant out of the open window. It was a cool night, and dark, for clouds had hidden the moon; the chimes rang the quarters; they seemed to follow close upon each other, and still I stood at the window. I heard Mrs. Rayner go, and her escort, Uncle George, return. "B-rrr," he went, as he stamped up the steps. "How his keys jingle," thought I; "and is it so cold?" I cannot remember that I thought much of what had happened; my senses were very keen, but emotion was torpid. I took note of every barking dog, every distant wheel; sometimes I sang a little to myself, and, all the while, I worked my foot to and fro along the skirting. Presently Uncle George left for good, taking the vicar with him. The servants came to bed, giggling under their breath; then all was still. I did not leave the window, but in the silence--there being now no sound to arrest my attention, save the chimes which I forgot to hear--a change came over me. I fell into a sort of dream; scene after scene the past rose before me in bright visions; then came the present, chaos. I stood, as it were, in the centre of nothingness, alone and lost, not a sound, not a light, not a finger to touch. "What matter," thought I,--"what matter if I live or die? Surely it is in this state that people kill themselves." I heard the chimes again, and a duck quacked in the pond; it was as the laugh of a devil. I turned from the window and stumbled over something; I lighted a candle, and sat shivering on the shrouded bed. "Two o'clock," thought I; "it is very cold. What shall I do? Shall I sleep or die?" And, as it were with a flash, there came to me the thought that perhaps I was not the only one who sat at this moment coldly contemplating death. An awful fear seized me that perhaps he, Gabriel, might be driven to the haven of despairers.