The lights in the village went out, house after house, till there only
remained two in the darkness. One of these came from a residence on
the hill-side, of which there is nothing to say at present; the other
shone from the window of Marty South. Precisely the same outward effect
was produced here, however, by her rising when the clock struck ten and
hanging up a thick cloth curtain. The door it was necessary to keep
ajar in hers, as in most cottages, because of the smoke; but she
obviated the effect of the ribbon of light through the chink by hanging
a cloth over that also. She was one of those people who, if they have
to work harder than their neighbors, prefer to keep the necessity a
secret as far as possible; and but for the slight sounds of
wood-splintering which came from within, no wayfarer would have
perceived that here the cottager did not sleep as elsewhere.

Eleven, twelve, one o'clock struck; the heap of spars grew higher, and
the pile of chips and ends more bulky. Even the light on the hill had
now been extinguished; but still she worked on. When the temperature
of the night without had fallen so low as to make her chilly, she
opened a large blue umbrella to ward off the draught from the door.
The two sovereigns confronted her from the looking-glass in such a
manner as to suggest a pair of jaundiced eyes on the watch for an
opportunity. Whenever she sighed for weariness she lifted her gaze
towards them, but withdrew it quickly, stroking her tresses with her
fingers for a moment, as if to assure herself that they were still
secure. When the clock struck three she arose and tied up the spars
she had last made in a bundle resembling those that lay against the
wall.