What sort of rest? Only the rest of the body, which had made a truce with the mind for the purpose. A quiet which knew that storms were not over, but which would be quiet nevertheless. Elizabeth felt that, in her intervals of half-consciousness. But all the closer she clung to her pillow of dry moss. She had a dispensation from sorrow there. When her head left it, it would be to ache again. It should not ache now. Sweet moss! — sweet summer air! — sweet sound of plashing water! — sweet dreamy lullaby of the locust! — Oh if they could put her to sleep for ever! — sing pain out and joy in! —
A vague, half-realized notion of the fight that must be gone through before rest 'for ever' could in any wise be hoped for — of the things that must be gained and the things that must be lost before that 'for ever' rest could in any sort be looked forward to, — and dismissing the thought, Elizabeth blessed her fragrant moss pillow of Lethe and went to sleep again.
How she dreaded getting rested; how she longed for that overpowering fatigue and exhaustion of mind and body to prolong itself! And as the hours went on, she knew that she was getting rested, and that she would have to wake up to everything again by and by. It should not be at anybody's bidding.
"Miss 'Lizabeth! —" sounded Clam's voice in the midst of her slumbers.
"Go away, Clam!" said the sleeper, without opening her eyes.
"Miss 'Lizabeth, ain't ye goin' to eat nothin'?"
"No — Go away."
"Miss 'Lizabeth! — dinner's ready."
"Well! —"
"You're a goin' to kill yourself."