of her past wrongs and present misery, made her heart die within her,
and her whole soul overflow with bitterness. She wrung her hands, and
smote her breast in an agony of despair; but in that dark hour no tear
relieved her burning brain, or moistened her eyes. She had once been
under the dominion of insanity; she felt that her reason in that moment
hung upon a thread; that, if she pursued much longer her present
thoughts, they would drive her mad; that, if she continued to gaze much
longer on the face of her husband, she would be tempted to plunge a
knife, which lay on the table near her, into his breast. With a
desperate effort she drew her eyes from the sleeper, and turned from the
bed. Her gaze fell upon a large full-length picture in oils, which hung
opposite. It was the portrait of one of Mark's ancestors, a young man
who had fallen in his first battle, on the memorable field of Flodden.
It bore a strong resemblance to Algernon, and Elinor prized it on that
account, and would sit for hours with her head resting upon her hand,
and her eyes riveted on this picture. This night it seemed to regard her
with a sad and mournful aspect; and the large blue eyes appeared to
return her fixed gaze with the sorrowful earnestness of life.

"My head is strangely confused," she murmured, half aloud. "Into what
new extravagance will my treacherous fancy hurry me to-night? Ah me!
physical wants and mental suffering, added to this long watching, will
turn my brain."

She buried her face in her hands, and endeavored to shut out the
grotesque and phantom-like forms that seemed to dance before her. A
deathlike stillness reigned through the house, the silence alone broken
by the ticking of the great dial at the head of the staircase. There is
something inexpressibly awful in the ticking of a clock, when heard at
midnight by the lonely and anxious watcher beside the bed of death. It