e accounts. They paid me eight dollars
a week, and Carrie and I had a room at the top of the hotel. It was
awfully hard work. I was so dead tired at night, sometimes, I couldn't
undress. I would sit down on the side of my bed to rest my feet; and
then the next thing I'd know would be waking in the morning, just as
I was, in my clothes. But so long as I slept, it was all right. It was
lying awake--that killed me!'

The trembling of her lips checked her, and she began to play nervously
with the fringe of the tablecloth, trying to force back emotion. He
had again seated himself opposite to her, and was observing her with
a half-frowning attention, as of one in whom the brain action is
physically difficult. He led her on, however, with questions, seeing
how much she needed the help of them.

From Montreal, it appeared, she had gone to a fruit-farm in the
Hamilton district, Ontario, as housekeeper to a widower with a family
of children varying in age from five to sixteen. She had made the
acquaintance of this man--a decent, rough, good-tempered fellow,
Canadian-born--through the hotel. He had noticed her powers of
management, and her overwork; and had offered her equal pay, an easier
task, and country air, instead of the rush of Montreal.

'I accepted for Carrie's sake. It was an apple-farm, running down to
Lake Ontario. I had to look after the house and the children--and to
cook--and wash--and bake--and turn one's hand to anything. It wasn't
too hard--and Carrie went to school with the others--and used to run
about the farm. Mr. Crosson was very kind. His old mother was living
there--or I--wouldn't have gone'--she flushed deeply--'but she
was very infirm, and couldn't do anything. I took in two English
papers--and used to get along somehow. Once I was ill, with congestion
of the lungs, and once I went to Niagara, with some people who lived
near. And I can hardly remember anything else happening. It was all
just the same--day after day--I just seemed to be half-alive.'

'Ah! you felt that?' he said, eagerly--'you felt that? There's a
stuff they call curare. You can't move--you're paralysed--but you feel
horrible pain. That's what I used to feel like--for months and months.
And then sometimes--it was different--as if I didn't care twopence
about anything, except a little bit of pleasure--and should never vex
myself about anything again. One was dead, and it didn't matter--was
rather pleasant indeed.'

She was silent. He