When I nursed my poor master, Mr. Robisson, I had to give him port-wine
and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time," added Mrs. Abel, with
a touch of remonstrance in her tone.

But again Mr. Bulstrode did not answer immediately, and she continued,
"It's not a time to spare when people are at death's door, nor would
you wish it, sir, I'm sure. Else I should give him our own bottle o'
rum as we keep by us. But a sitter-up so as you've been, and doing
everything as laid in your power--"

Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrode
said huskily, "That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty
of brandy there."

Early in the morning--about six--Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some time
in prayer. Does any one suppose that private prayer is necessarily
candid--necessarily goes to the roots of action? Private prayer is
inaudible speech, and speech is representative: who can represent
himself just as he is, even in his own reflections? Bulstrode had not
yet unravelled in his thought the confused promptings of the last
four-and-twenty hours.

He listened in the passage, and could hear hard stertorous breathing.
Then he walked out in the garden, and looked at the early rime on the
grass and fresh spring leaves. When he re-entered the house, he felt
startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel.

"How is your patient--asleep, I think?" he said, with an attempt at
cheerfulness in his tone.

"He's gone very deep, sir," said Mrs. Abel. "He went off gradual
between three and four o'clock. Would you please to go and look at
him? I thought it no harm to leave him. My man's gone afield, and the
little girl's seeing to the kettles."

Bulstrode went up. At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in the
sleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper and
deeper into the gulf of death.

He looked round the room and saw a bottle with some brandy in it, and
the almost empty opium phial. He put the phial out of sight, and
carried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in the
wine-cooler.

While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarch
at once, or wait for Lydgate's arrival. He decided to wait, and told
Mrs. Abel that she might go about her work--he could watch in the
bed-chamber.

As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocably
into silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months.
His conscience was