Though he tried to speak carelessly, he was evidently much agitated.
“Good-night,” he again repeated, but Mittie stood motionless as a statue, looking steadfastly on the glimmering embers. “Go up stairs,” he cried, taking her cold hand, and leading her to the door, “you will be frozen if you stay here much longer.”
“I am frozen already,” she answered, shuddering, “good night.”
The next morning, when the housemaid went into her room to kindle a fire, she was startled by the appearance of a muffled figure seated at the window, with the head leaning against the casement; the face was as white as the snow on the landscape. It was Mittie. She had not laid her head upon the pillow the whole live-long night.
CHAPTER XII.
“Beautiful tyrant—fiend angelical—
Dove-feathered raven!—wolf-devouring lamb—
Oh, serpent heart—hid in a flowering cave,
Did e’er deceit dwell in so fair a mansion!”—Shakspeare.
“Pray for the dead.
Why for the dead, who are at rest?
Pray for the living, in whose breast
The struggle between right and wrong
Is raging terrible and strong.”—Longfellow.
“Are you willing to remain with her alone, all night?” asked the young doctor.