good supper, to which she had also invited the worthy Priest, who had promised, for his part, to bring with him a pitcher of his own wine, the pleasant influence of which he calculated would enable Stephen to hear, with less annoyance and irritation than might otherwise be the case, the conditions restricting the use and enjoyment of the inheritance his wife had so fortunately and unexpectedly succeeded to. Lisa, as the day closed in, was every moment at the window, looking out for Stephen; as the evening itself closed in, she grew impatient and uneasy, and running to the end of the village, strained her eyes in the direction he would come in; but no Stephen could she see. ’Twas late at night ere, having long since dismissed the Priest, who duly made his appearance at the appointed time, she retired supperless to bed, a prey to the most painful anxiety. Hour after hour passed, but sleep came not to relieve her tearful eyes; at last, towards morning, she fell into a disturbed doze. Poor Stephen, meanwhile, was passing his time in horribly discomforted, physically and mentally, in the stable; he was altogether in so dejected, so abject a state of mind, that he had not the courage to go and knock at his own door. At last, at daylight, feeling that sooner or later the thing must be done, he crept across the yard, and tapping softly at the window, said, in the mildest of tones: “Open the door, my dear wife; it
