And seeing that Feltram had been well liked, and that his death had excited a vehement commiseration, Sir Bale did not wish it to be said that he had made the house too hot to hold him, and had so driven him to extremity.
Sir Bale's first agitation had subsided.

It was now late, he had written many letters, and he was tired.

It was not wonderful, then, that having turned his lounging-chair to the fire, he should have fallen asleep in it, as at last he did.
The storm was passing gradually away by this time.

The thunder was now echoing among the distant glens and gorges of Daulness Fells, and the angry roar and gusts of the tempest were subsiding into the melancholy soughing and piping that soothe like a lullaby.
Sir Bale therefore had his unpremeditated sleep very comfortably, except that his head was hanging a little uneasily; which, perhaps, helped him to this dream.
It was one of those dreams in which the continuity of the waking state that immediately preceded it seems unbroken; for he thought that he was sitting in the chair which he occupied, and in the room where he actually was.

It seemed to him that he got up, took a candle in his hand, and went through the passages to the old still-room where Philip Feltram lay.