We know the difficulty of holding in check our tyrannical habitual mode of passing on.
Every second of time in our experience throws out a pontoon bridge to the next.
We live by a clock that has two sets of hands on the same dial-plate. One is right and the other is always too fast.
Patty was sitting in the parlour. Sometimes she would start upright in her chair and listen eagerly; then she would try to reproach herself for expecting her brother Philip so soon.
He was detained, doubtless, had met with some friends, boon companions, who had prevailed upon him to pass a social hour or so with them.
She endeavoured to persuade herself that he was not able to return from some cause which was not explained. It would, however, be made manifest upon his return.
She felt that she must do something to break the monotony and suspense which she endured, and which every minute became more painful.
She took from the book-case a volume, with which she strove to beguile the tedium of her lonely hours. She read till her eyes ached, and then she cast aside the book.
“Why am I thus troubled?” she murmured. “Philip has been from home much later than this on many occasions. After all there is no reason for alarm, but—but I do wish he would come home, and father is away too, which makes me still more anxious.”
The poor girl sighed to herself as she glanced at the clock, the hour hand of which pointed to eleven.