Of Kate's, of course! He was happy and could whistle, and she was miserable and couldn't.

If she had not wept herself as dry as a wrung sponge, she must have relapsed into hysterics once more; but as she couldn't, with a long-drawn sigh, she resolved to go to bed.
So to bed Rose went, but not to sleep.

She tossed from side to side, feverish and impatient; the more she tried to sleep, the more she couldn't.

It was quite a new experience for poor Rose, not used to "tears at night instead of slumber." The wintry moonlight was shining brightly in her room through the parted curtains, and that helped her wakefulness, perhaps.

As the clock struck twelve, she sprang up in desperation, drew a shawl round her, and, in her night-dress, sat down by the window, to contemplate the heavenly bodies.
Hark! what noise was that?
The house was as still as a vault; all had retired, and were probably asleep.