window-blinds. But one month had passed since her elopement with Philip
Searle, yet her wan cheeks and altered aspect revealed how much of
suffering can be crowded into that little space of time. She started
from her revery when the striking of the timepiece told the lateness of
the hour. Heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairway, and, while she
listened, Philip, followed by Bradshaw, entered the room abruptly.

"How is this?" asked Philip, angrily. "Why are you not in bed?"

"I did not know it was so late, Philip," she answered, in a deprecating
tone. "I was half asleep upon the rocking-chair, listening to the
storm. It's a bad night, Philip. How wet you are!"

He brushed off the hand she had laid upon his shoulder, and muttered,
with bad humor:

"I've told you a dozen times I don't want you to sit up for me. Fetch
the brandy and glasses, and go to bed."

"Oh, Philip, it is so late! Don't drink: to-night, Philip. You are wet,
and you look tired. Come to bed."

"Do as I tell you," he answered, roughly, flinging himself into a chair,
and beckoning Bradshaw to a seat. Miranda sighed, and brought the bottle
and glasses from the closet.

"Now, you go to sleep, do you hear; and don't be whining and crying all
night, like a sick girl."

The poor girl moved slowly to the door, and turned at the threshold.