As she stepped into the hall she saw a light gleaming from the
open door of the sitting-room, and in the hope that some one was still
up, she stole noiselessly down the stairway to a point that commanded a
view of the apartment. Only Webb was there, and he sat quietly reading by
the shaded lamp and flickering fire. The scene and his very attitude
suggested calmness and safety. There was nothing to be afraid of, and he
was not afraid. With every moment that she watched him the nervous
agitation passed from mind and body. His strong, intent profile proved
that he was occupied wholly with the thought of his author. The quiet
deliberation with which he turned the leaves was more potent than
soothing words. "I wouldn't for the world have him know I'm so weak and
foolish," she said to herself, as she crept noiselessly back to her room.
"He little dreamed who was watching him," she whispered, smilingly, as
she dropped asleep.
When she waked next morning the rain had ceased, the wind blew in fitful
gusts, and the sky was still covered with wildly hurrying clouds that
seemed like the straggling rearguard which the storm had left behind. So
far as she could see from her window, everything was still standing, as
Mr. Clifford had said. Familiar objects greeted her reassuringly, and
never before had the light even of a lowering morning seemed more blessed
in contrast with the black, black night. As she recalled the incidents of
that night--her nervous panic, and the scene which had brought quiet and
peace--she smiled again, and, it must be admitted, blushed slightly.
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