The soft, steady light of the night-lamp shone on the face of the sleeper.

Yes, all was quiet in the room, but not in that sleeper's soul.

The broad white brow was painfully contracted, the lips drawn down and distorted, the delicate hand, half hidden by the deep Valenciennes ruffle, clutched the coverlet with convulsive force.

Sigh after sigh burst from the agitated breast.

John Hammond gazed upon the sleeper in an agony of apprehension, uncertain what to do.