CHAPTER XXIII.
With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone, We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done! Not till the hours of light return All we have built do we discern.
-- MATTHEW ARNOLD.
It was Sunday morning.

The night was sinking out of the sky to lean faint unto death upon the bosom of the earth.

The great forms of the trees, felt rather than seen, were darkness made visible.

Among the night of high elms round Warpington a single yellow light burned in an upper window.

It had been burning all night.