.

THE FLYING SHUTTLE.
Hour after hour of sleeplessness.

The silver-tongued clock remorselessly tinkled the quarters, and Hylda lay and waited for them with a hopeless strained attention.

In vain she tried devices to produce that monotony of thought which sometimes brings sleep.

Again and again, as she felt that sleep was coming at last, the thought of the letter she had found flashed through her mind with words of fire, and it seemed as if there had been poured through every vein a subtle irritant.