s upon which a human heart had been tortured--and thought
can, indeed, torture--for a third of a century. For Iden had learned to
know himself, and despaired.

Not long after he had settled himself and closed his eyes the handle of
the door was very softly turned, and Amaryllis stole in for her book,
which she had forgotten. She succeeded in getting it on tiptoe without a
sound, but in shutting the door the lock clicked, and she heard him
kick the fender angrily with his iron-shod heel.

After that there was utter silence, except the ticking of the American
clock--a loud and distinct tick in the still (and in that sense vacant)
room.

Presently a shadow somewhat darkened the window, a noiseless shadow;
Mrs. Iden had come quietly round the house, and stood in the March wind,
watching the sleeping man. She had a shawl about her shoulders--she put
out her clenched hand from under its folds, and shook her fist at him,
muttering to herself, "Never _do_ anything; nothing but sleep, sleep,
sleep: talk, talk, talk; never _do_ anything. That's what I hate."

The noiseless shadow disappeared; the common American clock continued
its loud tick, tick.

Slight sounds, faint rustlings, began to be audible among the cinders in
the fender. The dry cinders were pushed about by something passing
between them. After a while a brown mouse peered out at the end of the
fender under Iden's chair, looked round a moment, and went back to the
grate. In a minute he came again, and ventured somewhat farther across
the width of the white hearthstone to the verge of the carpet. This
advance was made step by step, but on reaching the carpet the mouse
rushed home to cover in one run--like children at "touch wood," going
out from a place of safety very cautiously, returning swiftly. The next
time another mouse followed, and a third appeared at the other end of
the fender. By degrees they got under the table, and helped themselves
to the crumbs; one mounted a chair and reached the cloth, but soon
descended, afraid to stay there. Five or six mice were now busy at their
dinner.

The sleeping man was as still and quiet as if carved.

A mouse came to the foot, clad in a great rusty-hued iron-shod boot--the
foot that rested on the fender, for he had crossed his knees. His ragged
and dingy trouser, full of March dust, and earth-stained by labour, was
drawn up somewhat higher than the boot. It took the mouse several trials
to reach the trouser, but he s