The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. Getting back the ice was rather a serious affair. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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