On pretence of sketching, Nelly spent the hours on the side of Loughrigg, trying sometimes to draw or sew, but for the most part, lying with shut eyes, hidden among the bracken.

Her faculty for dreaming awake--for a kind of visualisation sharper than most people possess--had been much developed since George's departure.

It partly tormented, partly soothed her.
Night came without news.

'I _can't_ hear till to-morrow night,' she thought, and lay still all night patient and sleepless, her little hands crossed on her breast.

The window was wide open and she could see the stars peering over Loughrigg.
Next morning, fresh columns in the newspaper.