e first that had presented itself
since the good old Methodist minister had given his congregation the
solemn warning to watch over the opportunities of various kinds
which the coming year would present.

'Jonas Barclay told us as the pleasures o' this world were like
apples o' Sodom, pleasant to look at, but ashes to taste.'

Coulson wisely left Philip to make the application for himself. If
he did he made no sign, but threw himself on his bed with a heavy
sigh.

'Are yo' not going to undress?' said Coulson, as he covered him up
in bed.

There had been a long pause of silence. Philip did not answer him,
and he thought he had fallen asleep. But he was roused from his
first slumber by Hepburn's soft movements about the room. Philip had
thought better of it, and, with some penitence in his heart for his
gruffness to the unoffending Coulson, was trying not to make any
noise while he undressed.

But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the Corneys' kitchen and the
scenes that had taken place in it, passing like a pageant before his
closed eyes. Then he opened them in angry weariness at the recurring
vision, and tried to make out the outlines of the room and the
furniture in the darkness. The white ceiling sloped into the
whitewashed walls, and against them he could see the four
rush-bottomed chairs, the looking-glass hung on one side, the old
carved oak-chest (his own property, with the initials of forgotten
ancestors cut upon it), which held his clothes; the boxes that
belonged to Coulson, sleeping soundly in the bed in the opposite
corner of the room; the casement window in the roof, through which
the snowy ground on the steep hill-side could be plainly seen; and
when he got so far as this in the catalogue of the room, he fell
into a troubled feverish sleep, which lasted two or three hours; and
then he awoke with a start, and a consciousness of uneasiness,
though what about he could not remember at first.

When he recollected all that had happened the night before, it
impressed him much more favourably than it had done at the time. If
not joy, hope had come in the morning; and, at any rate, he could be
up and be doing, for the late wintry light was stealing down the
hill-side, and he knew that, although Coulson lay motionless in his
sleep, it was past their usual time of rising. Still, as it was new
year's Day, a time of some licence, Philip had mercy on his
fellow-shopman, and did not waken him till just as he was