It
loomed up now, with the square patch of ashen sky above, black,
heavy with years of remembered agony and loss. In Lois's
hopeful, warm life this was the one uncomprehended monster. Her
crushed brain, her unwakened powers, resented their wrong dimly
to the mass of iron and work and impure smells, unconscious of
any remorseless power that wielded it. It was a monster, she
thought, through the sleepy, dreading night,--a monster that kept
her wakeful with a dull, mysterious terror.
When the night grew sultry and deepest, she started from her
half-doze to see her father come stealthily out and go down the
street. She must have slept, she thought, rubbing her eyes, and
watching him out of sight,--and then, creeping out, turned to
glance at the mill. She cried out, shrill with horror. It was a
live monster now,--in one swift instant, alive with fire,--quick,
greedy fire, leaping like serpents' tongues out of its hundred
jaws, hungry sheets of flame maddening and writhing towards her,
and under all a dull and hollow roar that shook the night. Did
it call her to her death? She turned to fly, and then----He was
alone, dying! He had been so kind to her! She wrung her hands,
standing there a moment. It was a brave hope that was in her
heart, and a prayer on her lips never left unanswered, as she
hobbled, in her lame, slow way, up to the open black door, and,
with one backward look, went in.
CHAPTER VIII.
There was a dull smell of camphor; a farther sense of coolness
and prickling wet on Holmes's hot, cracking face and hands; then
silence and sleep again.
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