very late indeed; so that when I wake early, as I do occasionally, or in
the grey of the dawn, I hear him still moving. I tried once to
remonstrate with him about staying up so late, as it cannot be good for
him; but I never ventured to repeat the experiment. You know how stern
and cold he can be--at least you may remember what I told you about him;
and when he is polite in this mood he is dreadful. When he is angry I
can bear it much better; but when he is slow and deliberate, and the
side of his mouth lifts up to show the sharp teeth, I think I feel--well,
I don't know how! Last night I got up softly and stole to the door, for
I really feared to disturb him. There was not any noise of moving, and
no kind of cry at all; but there was a queer kind of dragging sound, and
a slow, heavy breathing. Oh! it was dreadful, waiting there in the dark
and the silence, and fearing--fearing I did not know what!

"At last I took my courage a deux mains, and turning the handle as
softly as I could, I opened the door a tiny bit. It was quite dark
within; I could just see the outline of the windows. But in the
darkness the sound of breathing, becoming more distinct, was appalling.
As I listened, this continued; but there was no other sound. I pushed
the door open all at once. I was afraid to open it slowly; I felt as if
there might be some dreadful thing behind it ready to pounce out on me!
Then I switched on the electric light, and stepped into the room. I
looked first at the bed. The sheets were all crumpled up, so that I
knew Father had been in bed; but there was a great dark red patch in the
centre of the bed, and spreading to the edge of it, that made my heart
stand still. As I was gazing at it the sound of the breathing came
across the room, and my eyes followed to it. There was Father on his
right side with the other arm under him, just as if his dead body had
been thrown there all in a heap. The track of blood went across the
room up to the bed, and there was a pool all around him which looked