She did, however, consent to go to her room for a little in the early November dawn, when Jacob Nowell had fallen into a profound sleep; but when she did lie down, sleep would not come to her.  She could not help listening to every sound in the opposite room—­the falling of a cinder, the stealthy footfall of the watcher moving cautiously about now and then; listening still more intently when all was silent, expecting every moment to hear herself summoned suddenly.  The sick-room and the dark shadow of coming death brought back the thought of that bitter time when her uncle was lying unconscious and speechless in the pretty room at Lidford, with the wintry light shining coldly upon his stony face; while she sat by his pillow, watching him in hopeless silent agony, waiting for that dread change which they had told her was the only change that could come to him on earth.  The scene re-acted itself in her mind to-night, with all the old anguish.  She shut it out at last with a great effort, and began to think of what her grandfather had said to her.

She was to be rich.  She who had been a dependant upon others all her life was to know the security and liberty that must needs go along with wealth.  She was glad of this, much more for her husband’s sake than her own.  She knew that the cares which had clouded their life of late, which had made him seem to love her less than he had loved her at first, had their chief origin in want of money.  What happiness it would be for her to lift this burden from his life, to give him peace and security for the years to come!  Her thoughts wandered away into the bright region of day-dreams after this, and she fancied what their lives might be without that dull sordid trouble of pecuniary embarrassments.  She fancied her husband, with all the fetters removed that had hampered his footsteps hitherto, winning a name and a place in the world.  It is so natural for a romantic inexperienced girl to believe that the man she loves was born to achieve greatness; and that if he misses distinction, it is from the perversity of his surroundings or from his own carelessness, never from the fact of his being only a very small creature after all.

It was broad daylight when Marian rose after an hour of sleeplessness and thought, and refreshed herself with the contents of the cracked water-jug upon the rickety little wash-stand.  The old man was still asleep when she went back to his room; but his breathing was more troubled than it had been the night before, and the widow, who was experienced in sickness and death, told Marian that he would not last very long.  The shopman, Luke Tulliver, had come upstairs to see his master, and was hovering over the bed with a ghoulish aspect.  This young man looked very sharply at Marian as she came into the room—­seemed indeed hardly able to take his eyes from her face—­and there was not much favour in his look.  He knew who she was, and had been told how kindly the old