but a few minutes tonight to prepare for bed. She could not even braid
her uncoiled hair. She tossed it, all loosened, above her head as she
fell upon the pillow.

She heard, for a little while, the dull thumping of her heart. Her
breath was warm in a mesh of hair beneath her cheek; she was too sleepy
to put it away. She was wakened next morning by the maid. Her curtains
were drawn and a dull light from a rain-blotted world was in the room.

The maid brought a note to her bedside. From Mr. Augustine, she said.

Amabel raised herself to hold the sheet to the light and read:--

"Dear mother," it said. "I think that I shall go and stay with Wallace
for a week or so. I shall see you before I go up to Oxford. Try to
forgive me for my violence last night. I am sorry to have added to your
unhappiness. Your affectionate son--Augustine."

Her mind was still empty. "Has Mr. Augustine gone?" she asked the maid.

"Yes, ma'am; he left quite early, to catch the eight-forty train."

"Ah, yes," said Amabel. She sank back on her pillow. "I will have my
breakfast in bed. Tea, please, only, and toast."--Then, the long habit
of self-discipline asserting itself, the necessity for keeping strength,
if it were only to be spent in suffering:--"No, coffee, and an egg,
too."

She found, indeed, that she was very hungry; she had eaten nothing
yesterday. After her bath and the brushing and braiding of her hair, it
was pleasant to lie propped high on her pillows and to drink her hot
coffee. The morning papers, too, were nice to look at, folded on her
tray. She did not wish to read them; but they spoke of a firmly
established order, sustaining her life and assuring her of ample pillows
to lie on and hot coffee to drink, assuring her that bodily comforts
were pleasant whatever else was painful. It was a childish, a still
stupefied mood, she knew, but it supported her; an oasis of the
familiar, the safe, in the midst of whirling, engulfing storms.

It supported her through the hours when she lay, with closed eyes,
listening to the pour and drip of the rain, when, finally deciding to
get up, she rose and dressed very carefully, taking all her time.

Below, in the drawing-room, when she entered, it was very dark. The fire
was unlit, the bowls of roses were faded; and sudden, childish tears
filled her eyes at the desolateness. On such a day as this Augustine
would have seen that the fire was burning, awaiting her. She found
matches and lighted