There was still no one in the hall; she could go up to her room without the fear of being disturbed. She found the room, all white and black now with the gathering dusk. Beyond the window the evening breeze was rustling in the dark trees of the garden and the boom of the sea could be heard faintly. Mary sat, where she always sat when she was unhappy, inside the wardrobe with her head amongst the clothes. They in some way comforted her; she was not so lonely with them, nor did she feel so strongly the empty distances of the long room, the white light of the window-frames, nor the mysterious secrecy of the high elms knocking their heads together in the garden outside. She had a fit of hysterical crying, biting the hanging clothes between her teeth, feeling suddenly sick and tired and exhausted, with flaming eyes and a dry, parched throat. Why had she ever done such a thing, she loving Jeremy as she did? Would he ever forgive her? No, never; she saw that in his face. Perhaps he would--if he found Hamlet quickly and came back. Perhaps Hamlet never would be found. Then Jeremy's heart would be broken. She slept from utter exhaustion, and was so found, when the room was quite dark and only shadows moved in it, by her mother. “Why, Mary!” said Mrs. Cole. “What are you doing here? We couldn't think where you were. And where's Jeremy?” “Jeremy!” She started up, remembering everything. “Hasn't he come back? Oh, he's lost and he'll be killed, and it will be all my fault!” She burst into another fit of wild hysterical crying. Her mother took her arm. “Mary, explain--What have you done?” Mary explained, her teeth chattering, her head aching so that she could not see. “And you shut him up like that? Whatever--Oh, Mary, you wicked girl! And Jeremy--He's been away two hours now--” She turned off, leaving Mary alone in the black room.