think an hour longer than a day while the hour was passing; and then when the hour would be past, he used to think there had not been two minutes in it. He used to think the day, while the day would be passing, longer than a week; and when the day was spent he used to imagine that there had not been even one hour in it. He used to think the night longer than a year, and when the morning came he used to think there had been no night at all. But he used to think they all, hours and minutes and nights and days, were running a race against each other, they were going at such a pace—and nothing between him and the end of the time but the few of them that were unspent.
Often, when he used to go to bed, when he would be lying on the bed without a single wink of sleep coming to him, but his heart palpitating and his eyes wide open, he would get up and go out, and up the hill, until he reached the moss-plot where the barefooted woman gave him the beautiful gem. He used to hope that perhaps he would see her there again. He did not see her, but his visit would not be in vain. He used to feel that she was there beside him, and that she used to hear his speech and understand the trouble that was upon him. He used to argue and dispute with her because she did not show herself to him. He would repeat the words she spoke the day he saw her, and remind her of them, and ask her if she remembered the promise she had given him, and beg her, for the love of the Saviour, not to fail him when the terror came. No voice or word used to come from her, but even so, he was not without an answer to his words. The conviction used to come to his mind from her, as
