"Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. In this attempt he was, however, foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the door, against which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously with his heel. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. “Mr. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. This done, she waited at the side of the bed; but he gave no sign that he was conscious of her nearness. She must kill this man, or kill herself.
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