Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went upstairs to the
little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use
undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself
on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away,
the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep.

Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his
stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what
was to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the
necessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the
past night would leave them short of money if he long remained away
from the mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the
burial. These things settled in his own mind, he recalled the
doctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had
so recently had, in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished
sister. His feelings towards Esther almost amounted to curses. It
was she who had brought on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her
lightness of conduct had wrought this woe. His previous thoughts
about her had been tinged with wonder and pity, but now he hardened
his heart against her for ever.

One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that
night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle
humanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours
all remarked he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness
became habitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But
never to Mary. Between the father and the daughter there existed in
full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been
loved by one who is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and
silent to others, he humoured Mary with tender love: she had more