And I was deadly tired; but I had no thought of sleep--no wish for it.

When I had unlocked the door of my boudoir and found Ivor Dundas gone, as I had hoped he would be, the next hope born in my heart was that he might by and by come back, or send--with news.

Hour after hour of deadly suspense passed on, and he did not come or make any sign.
At five o'clock Marianne, who had flitted about all night like a restless ghost, made me drink a cup of hot chocolate, and actually put me to bed.

My last words to her were: "What is the use?
I can't sleep.
It will be worse to lie and toss in a fever, than sit up." Yet I did sleep, and heavily.

She will always deny it, I know, but I'm sure she must have slyly slipped a sleeping-powder into the chocolate.