By night Helen's feverish uneasiness had increased, and Edith secretly congratulated herself on her resolute step of the day before. And a wretched night followed. In reality Helen was very anxious and unhappy about Malcolm Willoughby, and her dreams were full of terrors that something had befallen him. Through all, the disagreeable clock again thrust forward its ugly face, and she woke in an indescribable state of horror, fancying that the clock was standing by her bedside, striking loudly in her ears to a kind of "refrain" of the words: "I told you so. I told you so." Of course the clock _was_ striking, and had evidently awakened her by so doing. "Thirteen again," whispered Edith, "it is really very disagreeable." "It sounds to _me_ like the voice of my conscience," said Helen, "warning me that some terrible punishment is coming upon me for my wicked folly. Yes, Edith, I see it all now, and as soon as ever I can move we shall go home, and I shall ask poor Aunt Fanny to forgive me. I wish every other consequence of my wrong-doing could be done away with as easily as her displeasure." And all her pride broken down, poor Helen burst into tears, and Edith's affectionate words of soothing were of no avail to stop her sobs. She felt rather better in the morning however, partly, perhaps, because the day was bright and sunny. About mid-day she fell into a doze on her sofa, and waking after an hour's sleep was surprised to miss Edith. A note in pencil pinned to the table-cover caught her attention. It bore these words: "You are so nicely asleep I don't like to waken you. I shall come back as early as I can, but don't be alarmed if I am a little later than you expect." "She has gone to finish the sketch," thought Helen uneasily. "I wish I had not asked her to do so, it looks dull and overcast." She rang the hand-bell for Mrs. Jones, who appeared with a basin of soup, and told her that the young lady had set off a quarter of an hour before. "It can't be helped now," said Helen, "but I wish I had not proposed it." The afternoon seemed long and dull, and yet Helen felt sorry when it began to close in, for no Edith had yet appeared. Still it was not later than they had been out together more than once. Helen tried to think it was not yet dusk outside, but felt this comfort fail her when it gradually grew so indisputably dark that Mrs. Jones brought in candles without her asking for them. "Are you not uneasy about my sister and Griffith, Mrs. Jones?" said Helen; but her anxiety was tenfold increased when Mrs. Jones replied calmly:-- "Griffith is not with the young lady to-day. I had to send him a message to Llanfair, and as like as not he will stay at his uncle's till the morning. The young lady said it did not matter, and I saddled the pony for her myself." "Griffith not with her!" exclaimed Helen. "Oh, Mrs. Jones, what will become of her?"