ple!"

That same night, past one o'clock, he was roused from sleep by hearing
bolts drawn back. He got up, hastened to the window, and looked out.
At first he could distinguish nothing. The moonless night; like a dark
bird, had nested in the garden; the sighing of the lilac bushes was the
only sound. Then, dimly, just below him, on the steps of the front door,
he saw a figure standing.

"Who is that?" he called.

The figure did not move.

"Who are you?" said Hilary again.

The figure raised its face, and by the gleam of his white beard Hilary
knew that it was Mr. Stone.

"What is it, sir?" he said. "Can I do anything?"

"No," answered Mr. Stone. "I am listening to the wind. It has visited
everyone to-night." And lifting his hand, he pointed out into the
darkness.

CHAPTER XXI

A DAY OF REST

Cecilia's house in the Old Square was steeped from roof to basement in
the peculiar atmosphere brought by Sunday to houses whose inmates have
no need of religion or of rest.

Neither she nor Stephen had been to church since Thyme was christened;
they did not expect to go again till she was married, and they felt that
even to go on these occasions was against their principles; but for the
sake of other people's feelings they had made the sacrifice, and they
meant to make it once more, when the time came. Each Sunday, therefore,
everything tried to happen exactly as it happened on every other
day, with indifferent success. This was because, for all Cecilia's
resolutions, a joint of beef and Yorkshire pudding would appear on the
luncheon-table, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Stone--who came when
he remembered that it was Sunday--did not devour the higher mammals.
Every week, when it appeared, Cecilia, who for some reason carved
on Sundays, regarded it with a frown. Next week she would really
discontinue it; but when next week came, there it was, with its
complexion that reminded her so uncomfortably of cabmen. And she would
partake of it with unexpected heartiness. Something very old and deep,
some horrible whole-hearted appetite, derived, no doubt, from Mr.
Justice Carfax, rose at that hour precisely every week to master
her. Having given Thyme the second helping which she invariably took,
Cecilia, who detested carving, would look over the fearful joint at a
piece of glass procured by her in Venice, and at the daffodils standing
upright in it, apparently without support. Had it not been for this
joint of beef,