But what sort of rest was it?  Sometimes even her own personal identity was gone, and she would live over again in the poor children, the hunger and the blows, or she would become Mrs. Rawlins, and hear herself sentenced for the savage cruelty, or she would actually stand in court under sentence for manslaughter.  Her pulses throbbed up to fever pitch, head and cheeks burnt, the very power to lie still was gone, and whether she commanded her thoughts or lapsed into the land of dreams, they worked her equal woe.

Now it was the world of gazing faces, feverishly magnified, multiplied, and pressing closer and closer on her, till she could have screamed to dispel them; now it was her mother weeping over the reports to which she had given occasion, and accusing herself of her daughter’s errors; and now it was Lovedy Kelland’s mortal agony, now the mob, thirsting for vengeance, were shouting for justice on her, as the child’s murderer, and she was shrieking to Alick Keith to leave her to her fate, and only save her mother.

It would hardly be too much to say that the positive wretchedness of actually witnessing the child’s death was doubled in these its imaginary repetitions on that still more suffering night of waking dreams, when every solemn note of the cathedral clock, every resolute proclamation from its fellow in the town hall, every sharp reply from the domestic timepiece in the Deanery fell on her ears, generally recalling her at least to full consciousness of her identity and whereabouts, and dispelling the delusion.

But, then, what comfort was there?  Veritably she had caused suffering and death; she had led to the peril of Fanny’s children; she had covered her mother with shame and grief!  Nay, in her exaggerated tone of feeling, she imagined that distress and poverty might have been entailed on that beloved mother.  Those title deeds—­ no intelligence.  Captain Keith had taken no notice.  Perhaps he heard and believed those degrading reports!  He had soul enough to pity and sympathize with the failure of extended views of beneficence; he despised the hypocrisy that had made charity a cloak for a credulous debasing attachment, and to such an object!  He might well avoid her!  His sister had always bantered her on what had seemed too absurd to be rebutted, and, at any rate, this fainting fit would clench his belief.  No doubt he believed it.  And if he did, why should not every one else whose opinion she cared for:  Ermine, her Colonel, even gentle Fanny—­no, she would never believe any harm, she had suffered too much in her cause.

Oh, for simple genuine charity like Fanny’s, with eyes clear with innocence and humility!  And now what was before her? should she ever be allowed to hide her head, or should she be forced again to brave that many-eyed world?  Perhaps the title-deed business would prove utter ruin.  It would have been acceptable to herself, but her mother and sister!