room. I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four—in two hours the servants will be up."
"Good-night, then, sir," said I, departing.
He seemed surprised—very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to go.
"What!" he exclaimed, "are you quitting me already, and in that way?"
"You said I might go, sir."
"But not without taking leave; not without a word or two of acknowledgment and good-will; not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life!—snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death! and you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands."
He held out his hand; I gave him mine. He took it first in one, then in both his own.
"You have saved my life. I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation; but you; it is different—I feel your benefits no burden, Jane."
He paused; gazed at me. Words almost visible trembled on his lips—but his voice was checked.
"Goodnight again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in the case."
"I knew," he continued, "you would do me good in some way, at some time—I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you; their expression and smile did not"—(again he stopped)—"did not" (he proceeded hastily) "strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii; there are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, goodnight!"
Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.
"I am glad I happened to be awake," I said; and then I was going.
"What! you will go?"
"I am cold, sir."
"Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!" But he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an expedient.
"I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir," said I.
"Well, leave me:" he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.
I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne; but I could not reach it, even in fancy—a counteracting breeze blew off land,
