e. She took
out her watch, and tried to see, by the starlight, the time. The slender
black hands upon its golden face were invisible. It ticked--it was
going. She knew, by that, it could not be far beyond midnight, at the
most. She was chilly, in her white dress, from the night air. She went
to the open window, and looked out from it, before she drew it down.
Away, over the fields, and up and down the river, all was dark,
solitary.

Nobody knew it--she was here alone.

She shut the window, softly, afraid of the sounds herself might make.
She opened the double doors from the countingroom, and stood on the
outer threshold, and looked into the mill. The heavy looms were still.
They stood like great, dead creatures, smitten in the midst of busy
motion. There was an awfulness in being here, the only breathing, moving
thing--in darkness--where so lately had been the deafening hum of
rolling wheels, and clanking shafts, and flying shuttles, and busy,
moving human figures. It was as if the world itself were stopped, and
she forgotten on its mighty, silent course.

Should she find her way to the great bell, ring it, and make an alarm?
She thought of this; and then she reasoned with herself that she was
hardly so badly off, as to justify her, quite, in doing that. It would
rouse the village, it would bring Mr. Rushleigh down, perhaps--it would
cause a terrible alarm. And all that she might be spared a few hours
longer of loneliness and discomfort. She was safe. It would soon be
morning.

The mill would be opened early. She would go back to the sofa, and try
to sleep again. Nobody could be anxious about her. The Rushleighs
supposed her to be at Cross Corners. Her aunt would think her detained
at Lakeside. It was really no great matter. She would be brave, and
quiet.

So she shut the double doors again, and found a coat of Paul's, or Mr.
Rushleigh's, in the closet of the countingroom, and lay down upon the
sofa, covering herself with that.

For an hour or more, her heart throbbed, her nerves were excited, she
could not sleep. But at last she grew calmer, her thought wandered from
her actual situation--became indistinct--and slumber held her again,
dreamily.

There was another sleeper, also, in the mill whom Faith knew nothing of.

Michael Garvin, the night watchman--the same whose child had been ill
the night before--when Faith came out into the loom chamber, had left it
but a few minutes, going his silent round within t