CHAPTER XVIII.
A JOURNEY.
He, full of modesty and truth, Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought.
_Tasso_.
Fresh grief can occupy itself With its own recent smart; It feeds itself on outward things, And not on its own heart.
_Faber_ A thing which surprises me very much in looking over those days of suffering, is, that during that day a frightful irritability is the emotion that I most remember--an irritability of feeling, not of expression: for I lay quite still upon the bed all day, and only answered, briefly and simply, the questions of Sophie and the maid.
I could not sleep: it was many hours since I had slept: but nothing seemed further from possibility than sleeping.

The lightest sound enraged my nerves: the approach of any one made me frantic.

I lay with my hands crushed together, and my teeth against each other, whenever Sophie entered the room.
She tried to be sympathetic and kind: but she was not much encouraged.
Toward afternoon, she left me a good deal alone.

"I wonder how people feel when they are going mad," I said, getting up and putting cold water on my head.

I was so engaged with the strange sensations that pursued me, that I did not dwell upon my trouble.
"Is this the way you feel when you are going to die?
or what happens if you never go to sleep ?" My body was so young and healthy, that it was making a good fight.
Just at dusk, Richard returned.