Now I am poor, and sick, and neglected, and despised, and I wish I were dead, and all the trouble over!" Mrs.Stanford sat in her low chair, brooding over such dismal thoughts as these, while the slow hours dragged on.

The baby slept, for a wonder.
A neighbouring church clock struck the hours solemnly one after another--ten, eleven, twelve! No Mr.Stanford yet, but that was nothing new.

As midnight, struck, Rose got up, secured the door, and going into an inner room, flung herself, dressed as she was, on the bed, and fell into the heavy, dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
She slept so soundly that she never heard a key turn in the lock, about three in the morning, or a man's unsteady step crossing the floor.

The lamp still burning on the table, enabled Mr.Reginald Stanford to see what he was about, otherwise, serious consequences might have ensued.
For Mr.Stanford was not quite steady on his legs, and lurched as he walked, as if his wife's sitting-room had been the deck of a storm-tossed vessel.
"I s'pose she's gone to bed," muttered Mr.Stanford, hiccoughing.

"Don't want to wake her--makes a devil of a row! I ain't drunk, but I don't want to wake her." Mr.Stanford lurched unsteadily across the parlour, and reconnoitred the bedroom.