hy should I
please my useless self overmuch, when by doing otherwise I please those
who are more valuable than I?'

In the midst of desultory reflections like these, which alternated
with surmises as to the inexplicable connection that appeared to exist
between her intended husband and Miss Aldclyffe, she heard dull noises
outside the walls of the house, which she could not quite fancy to be
caused by the wind. She seemed doomed to such disturbances at critical
periods of her existence. 'It is strange,' she pondered, 'that this my
last night in Knapwater House should be disturbed precisely as my first
was, no occurrence of the kind having intervened.'

As the minutes glided by the noise increased, sounding as if some one
were beating the wall below her window with a bunch of switches. She
would gladly have left her room and gone to stay with one of the maids,
but they were without doubt all asleep.

The only person in the house likely to be awake, or who would have
brains enough to comprehend her nervousness, was Miss Aldclyffe, but
Cytherea never cared to go to Miss Aldclyffe's room, though she was
always welcome there, and was often almost compelled to go against her
will.

The oft-repeated noise of switches grew heavier upon the wall, and was
now intermingled with creaks, and a rattling like the rattling of dice.
The wind blew stronger; there came first a snapping, then a crash, and
some portion of the mystery was revealed. It was the breaking off and
fall of a branch from one of the large trees outside. The smacking
against the wall, and the intermediate rattling, ceased from that time.

Well, it was the tree which had caused the noises. The unexplained
matter was that neither of the trees ever touched the walls of the house
during the highest wind, and that trees could not rattle like a man
playing castanets or shaking dice.

She thought, 'Is it the intention of Fate that something connected with
these noises shall influence my future as in the last case of the kind?'

During the dilemma she fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamt that she
was being whipped with dry bones suspended on strings, which rattled at
every blow like those of a malefactor on a gibbet; that she shifted and
shrank and avoided every blow, and they fell then upon the wall to which
she was tied. She could not see the face of the executioner for his
mask, but his form was like Manston's.

'Thank Heaven!' she said, when she awoke and saw