Cranford

She talked me to sleep at last, and then I was awakened by a slight sound at the door, for which she begged my pardon as she crept penitently into bed; but it seems that when I could no longer confirm her belief that the long-lost was really here— under the same roof— she had begun to fear lest it was only a waking dream of hers; that there never had been a Peter sitting by her all that blessed evening— but that the real Peter lay dead far away beneath some wild sea-wave, or under some strange eastern tree. And so strong had this nervous feeling of hers become, that she was fain to get up and go and convince herself that he was really there by listening through the door to his even, regular breathing— I don’t like to call it snoring, but I heard it myself through two closed doors— and by-and-by it soothed Miss Matty to sleep.