She rose slowly, stiff from the constrained posture, and dragged herself across the room. Opening her wardrobe door, she took from the shelf a vial labelled "laudanum." She held it a moment in her hand.
"It is only to go to sleep," she said, half aloud, "to go to sleep, and never wake again. Never? ah! if I could be sure, sure of that!"
"'And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever.' 'Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.'"
With a shudder, she put it hastily back, locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed.
"Oh, God, forgive me!" she cried, "keep me, keep me, or I shall do it yet! And then—forever and ever! No space for repentance, no coming back!"
At length tired nature found temporary relief in the heavy, dreamless slumber of utter exhaustion.
Hours passed, and still she slept on, hearing not, nor heeding the sounds of returning life in the household.
They were very late after their long night of revelry; breakfast was not on the table till ten o'clock, and even then no one answered the summons but the master of the house and Mildred.
The children had taken their morning meal two hours before.
"An unexpected pleasure, this, Milly, my dear," was Mr. Dinsmore's greeting.