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CHAPTER XIV.
WAKEFULNESS.
"'Tis well for us there is no gift
Of prophecy on earth,
Or how would every pleasure be
A rose crushed at its birth."
Alice retired to her bed; but,
weary as she was, she could not
sleep. Hitherto, whatever her
griefs or anxieties had been,
night had brought repose—sleep, blessed
sleep, that panacea of all human woes, which
the young and happy have never learned to
estimate, had never failed her before; but
now her powers of mind and body had all
been overtasked, and her whole delicate
nervous system was shaken by the intense
strain it had undergone, and she could not
sleep. Restless and feverish, she turned
from side to side in strange, unwonted wakefulness.
Her head ached, her cheeks burned,
