sordered. She glanced round
tearfully and apprehensively. An acute observer might have detected that
her alarm was a little over expressed: she had three spectators--and one
of them was the Warden!

Near her stood May Dashwood in a black dressing-gown illumined by her
auburn hair. It was tied behind at her neck and spread on each side and
down her back in glistening masses. She looked like some priestess of an
ancient cult, ministering to a soul distressed. The Warden stood for a
moment arrested, looking across at them, and then his eyes rested on May
alone.

Gwen made a curious movement into her pillows and May moved away from
the bed. She seemed about to slip away from the room, but Lady Dashwood
made her a sign to stay. It was such an imperative sign that May stayed.
She went to the fireplace silently and stood there, and Lady Dashwood
came to her. No one spoke. Lady Dashwood stood with face averted from
the bed and closed her eyes, like one who waits patiently, but takes no
part and no responsibility. May did not look at the bed, but she heard
what was said and saw, without looking.

The Warden was now walking quietly round to the side where Gwendolen was
propped. She made a convulsive movement of her arms towards him and
sobbed hysterically--

"Oh, I'm so frightened!"

He approached her without responding either to her exclamation or her
gestures. He put his hand on the electric lamp by the bed, raised the
shade, and turned it so as to cast its light on his own face. While he
did this there was silence.

Then he began to speak, and the sound of his voice made May's heart stir
strangely. She leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and pressed her hand
over her eyes. All her prayers that night, all her self-reproach, meant
very little. What were they but a pretence, a cloak to hide from herself
the nakedness of her soul? No, they were not a pretence. Her prayer had
been a real prayer for forgetfulness of herself. But in his presence the
past seemed to slip away and leave her clamouring for relief from this
strange present suffering, and from this dull empty aching below her
heart when she drew her breath. She knew now how weak she was.

She could hear his voice saying: "What is it you are afraid of?" and as
he spoke, it seemed to May herself that fear, of all things in the
world, was the least real, and fear of spirits was an amazing folly.

"I thought I saw something," said Gwendolen, doubtfully; for already sh