breath passed over my face; I awoke as out of a sleep of death. My mother had been stooping over me. "Is the Sandman yet there?" I stammered. "No, no, my dear child, he has gone away long ago,—he will not hurt you!" So said my mother, and she kissed and embraced her recovering darling.
Why should I weary you, my dear Lothaire! Why should I be so diffuse with details, when I have so much more to tell. Suffice it to say, that I had been discovered while watching, and ill-used by Coppelius. Agony and terror had brought on delirium and fever, of which I lay sick for several weeks. "Is the Sandman still there?" That was my first sensible word and the sign of my amendment—my recovery. I can now only tell you, the most frightful moment in my juvenile years. Then you will be convinced that it is no fault of my eyes, that all to me seems colorless, but that a dark fatality has actually suspended over my life a gloomy veil of clouds, which I shall, perhaps, only tear away in death.
Coppelius was no more to be seen; it was said he had left the town.
About a year might have elapsed, when, according to the old custom, we sat at the round table. My father was very cheerful, and told much that was entertaining, about his travels in his youth; when, as the clock struck nine, we heard the house-door creak on the hinges, and slow steps, heavy as iron, groaned through the passage and up stairs. "That is Coppelius," said my mother, turning pale. "Yes! that is Coppelius!" repeated my father, with a faint broken voice. The tears started from my mother's eyes "But father—father!" she cried, "must it be so?"
"He comes to me for the last time, I promise you," was the answer. "Only go now—go—go with the children—go to bed. Good night!"
I felt as if I were pressed into cold, heavy stone,—my breath was stopped. My mother caught me by the arm as I stood immovable. "Come, come, Nathaniel!" I allowed
