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CHAPTER XIV.

WAKEFULNESS.

"'Tis well for us there is no gift Of prophecy on earth, Or how would every pleasure be  A rose crushed at its birth."

Alice retired to her bed; but, weary as she was, she could not sleep. Hitherto, whatever her griefs or anxieties had been, night had brought repose—sleep, blessed sleep, that panacea of all human woes, which the young and happy have never learned to estimate, had never failed her before; but now her powers of mind and body had all been overtasked, and her whole delicate nervous system was shaken by the intense strain it had undergone, and she could not sleep. Restless and feverish, she turned from side to side in strange, unwonted wakefulness. Her head ached, her cheeks burned,