On the last day of ‘cram,’ she sat from morning to night in her comfortless little bedroom, bending over the smoky fire, reading desperately through a pile of note-books. The motive of vanity no longer supported her; gladly she would have crept away into a life of insignificance; but the fee for the examination was paid, and she must face the terrors, the shame, that waited her at Burlington House. No hope of ‘passing.’ Perhaps at the last moment a stroke of mortal illness would come to her relief. Not so. She found herself in the ghastly torture-hall, at a desk on which lay sheets of paper, not whiter than her face. Somebody gave her a scroll, stereotyped in imitation of manuscript--the questions to be answered. For a quarter of an hour she could not understand a word. She saw the face of Samuel Barmby, and heard his tones--‘The delicacy of a young lady’s nervous system unfits her for such a strain.’ That evening she went home with a half-formed intention of poisoning herself. But the morrow saw her seated again before another scroll of stereotype, still thinking of Samuel Barmby, still hearing his voice. The man was grown hateful to her; he seemed to haunt her brain malignantly, and to paralyse her hand. Day after day in the room of torture, until all was done. Then upon her long despair followed a wild, unreasoning hope. Though it rained, she walked all the way home, singing, chattering to herself, and reached the house-door without consciousness of the distance she had traversed. Her mother and sister came out into the hall; they had been watching for her. ‘I did a good paper to-day--I think I’ve passed after all--yes, I feel sure I’ve passed!’ ‘You look dreadful,’ exclaimed Mrs. Morgan. ‘And you’re wet through--’ ‘I did a good paper to-day--I feel sure I’ve passed!’ She sat down to a meal, but could not swallow. ‘I feel sure I’ve passed--I feel sure--’ And she fell from the chair, to all appearances stone-dead. They took her upstairs, undressed her, sent for the doctor. When he came, she had been lying for half-an-hour conscious, but mute. She looked gravely at him, and said, as if repeating a lesson: ‘The delicacy of a young lady’s nervous system unfits her for such a strain.’ ‘Undoubtedly,’ repeated the doctor, with equal gravity. ‘But,’ she added eagerly, ‘let Mr. Barmby know at once that I have passed.’ ‘He shall know at once,’ said the doctor. CHAPTER 3