GUILTY FEARS. 53 



the dame's arm-chair ; and there, with the bit of wood still in 

 his hand, sat waiting, yet dreading her return. But she came 

 not ; and after an hour spent in a fever of distress, and uncer- 

 tainty what to do, trying against conviction to think the old 

 woman innocent, and not bearing scarcely daring to tax her 

 with guilt, too restless to sit there longer or return to his own 

 chamber or to endure within doors the sultriness of that 

 midsummer night Tim, without reaching down his hat, 

 hurried from the cottage. 



He had not been long gone when the old woman returned. 

 The moon being late, it was nearly dark when she came in ; 

 and soon after her cuckoo clock struck ten. This was an hour 

 after the time at which she had been generally accustomed to 

 go to bed always in the summer-time without a light ; but 

 on that particular evening she loved not the darkness. 



If she had been a fine lady she might have fancied herself 

 nervous ; being only a poor creature, she felt herself queer 

 dreading she scarce knew what, and trembling she would not 

 know why. With shaking hand she plied her steel and tinder 

 was long in kindling a light and, when she had succeeded, 

 thought it burnt blue. She had gone out partly for the sake 

 of other people's company, and, now she was at home, did not 

 like her own. To improve it, she thought for a moment of 

 calling in the aid of a certain domestic spirit (the only spirit 

 she did not dread) encased somewhere in the walnut-tree 

 chest, which consisted, besides the drawers, of a sort of cup- 



