But the doctor's frame lay scarcely more than an hour or two in the torpor of troubled slumbers.

When he awoke in the darkness of his warm, closed room he was aware, even before thought was awake in him, of the painful oppression, the sickness of heart which the sorrow we have slept on leaves behind it.

It is as though the disaster of which the shock merely jarred us at first, had, during sleep, stolen into our very flesh, bruising and exhausting it like a fever.

Memory returned to him like a blow, and he sat up in bed.

Then slowly, one by one, he again went through all the arguments which had wrung his heart on the jetty while the fog-horns were bellowing.