The house-work, which, if we had dared trust a stranger near us, would have been done by a servant, was taken on the first day, taken as her own right, by Marian Halcombe.  “What a woman’s hands are fit for,” she said, “early and late, these hands of mine shall do.”  They trembled as she held them out.  The wasted arms told their sad story of the past, as she turned up the sleeves of the poor plain dress that she wore for safety’s sake; but the unquenchable spirit of the woman burnt bright in her even yet.  I saw the big tears rise thick in her eyes, and fall slowly over her cheeks as she looked at me.  She dashed them away with a touch of her old energy, and smiled with a faint reflection of her old good spirits.  “Don’t doubt my courage, Walter,” she pleaded, “it’s my weakness that cries, not me.  The house-work shall conquer it if I can’t.”  And she kept her word—­the victory was won when we met in the evening, and she sat down to rest.  Her large steady black eyes looked at me with a flash of their bright firmness of bygone days.  “I am not quite broken down yet,” she said.  “I am worth trusting with my share of the work.”  Before I could answer, she added in a whisper, “And worth trusting with my share in the risk and the danger too.  Remember that, if the time comes!”

I did remember it when the time came.

As early as the end of October the daily course of our lives had assumed its settled direction, and we three were as completely isolated in our place of concealment as if the house we lived in had been a desert island, and the great network of streets and the thousands of our fellow-creatures all round us the waters of an illimitable sea.  I could now reckon on some leisure time for considering what my future plan of action should be, and how I might arm myself most securely at the outset for the coming struggle with Sir Percival and the Count.

I gave up all hope of appealing to my recognition of Laura, or to Marian’s recognition of her, in proof of her identity.  If we had loved her less dearly, if the instinct implanted in us by that love had not been far more certain than any exercise of reasoning, far keener than any process of observation, even we might have hesitated on first seeing her.

The outward changes wrought by the suffering and the terror of the past had fearfully, almost hopelessly, strengthened the fatal resemblance between Anne Catherick and herself.  In my narrative of events at the time of my residence in Limmeridge House, I have recorded, from my own observation of the two, how the likeness, striking as it was when viewed generally, failed in many important points of similarity when tested in detail.  In those former days, if they had both been seen together side by side, no person could for a moment have mistaken them one for the other—­as has happened often in the instances of twins.  I could not say this now.  The sorrow and suffering