Thinking thus, she lay in weary abandon on her childhood's bed. The monotonous tick of the old clock, the simmering of the kettle on the hob, and the deep undertone of the ocean soothed her like a familiar, unforgotten lullaby. In a few minutes she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. She was asleep when Joan returned. Joan had gone to her neighbour's to ask a question about the boats, and she remained there for more than an hour. For Ann Trewillow had heard of Roland's arrival in the village, and she and Joan had some opinions to express on the subject. So that when Joan returned to her own cottage, it was with her heart beating to memories of her daughter. She put a little more coal on her fire and then went for a drink of water. The tin cup was not in its usual place, for Denas had left it on the table. Joan looked at the cup with a face full of questions. Had she left it there? She never before had done such a thing. Who then had been in her house? Who had been drinking from her water-bucket? She asked the questions idly, without fear, but with a certain curiosity as to her unknown visitor. Then she put more water into the kettle and set a cup and saucer for her husband in case he wanted a drink of hot tea when he came in from the fishing. All the time she was thinking of Denas, and the girl seemed to grow into the air beside her; she felt that if she whispered "Denas" she might hear the beloved voice answer "Mother." Unknown to any mortal, Joan had made a kind of idol of the pictured Denasia. She was sorry for her weakness in this matter, but she was not able to resist the temptation of very frequently opening the drawer in which it lay, of looking at it, and of kissing it. Her conversation, her thoughts, her fancies made her child-sick. She longed for a sight of her darling's face, and she lifted a candle and went to the door of the room in which it lay hidden. There was always an unacknowledged sense of self-indulgence in this act, and the sense made her go a little softly about it, as if it had to be done secretly. She opened the door slowly, and the rush candle showed her clothing scattered about the room. Her heart stood still; she was breathless; she put down her light and on tiptoes went to the bedside. Denas was fast asleep. Her long hair lay loose upon the pillow, her face was pale and faintly smiling, her hands open and at rest upon the coverlet. Her deep, slow breathing showed her to be far below conscious being, and Joan knelt down at her child's side and filled her empty eyes with the fair picture and her empty heart with the hopes it inspired.