The next morning the sensation of waking in such fine surroundings had lost all its charm. Rosalie awoke with a dull leaden pain at her heart, that gained rather than lost power as she recalled one by one the articles of furniture in this new home. The long mirror had lost its fascination; so had the silken bed-hangings. She did not jump out of bed, but rather lay there idly, with no wish to rise; oppressed with such a heaviness that to lie still seemed the only ease from all those aches and pains that twine around a heavy heart. As the grey light of early morning brightened and broadened, she curled in among the bed-clothes, and shut her eyes. “If only they would let me lie here, and not disturb me! I would never disturb them, I’m sure. I feel so weary that the least exertion is the biggest effort.” Then she lay very still for a long time, till at last Mariana knocked at the door and opened it, bringing the customary cup of tea. “I feel so tired, Mariana,” Rosalie said, “and there’s nothing to do. Don’t you think I might spend the day in bed?” “It is against the rules.” “Who makes all the rules here?” “The Master.” “But he has gone away till to-morrow.” “That does not excuse us.” “But he would never know unless you told. I am tired, really, Mariana. I could just lie still, and never move an inch all day.” “You must get up.” “When I get up my heart aches.” “That does not enter into the consideration of the rule. You must get up, or you will be shaken out when the bed is made.” So very reluctantly Rosalie rose, with a day of nothingness and imprisonment before her. She was dressed in about the same time as yesterday, had breakfast served in the same room in the same way, and then walked out on to the corridor aimlessly and disconsolately. Mariana had disappeared. Although Rosalie tried every door along the corridor she could not find her. Many of these were locked, and others she discovered to be bedrooms, furnished much as her own, with the exception of the little sitting-room and the room in which she had her meals. At last, weary of this, she passed out to the high gallery overreaching the square central hall. She walked round it, and tried various doors leading off from it, but all were locked. Below, the dim hall lay in silence. Nothing of light or life was there, though it was not yet mid-day. She looked down over the high oaken balustrade, and sighed, and the echo brought her sigh back to her. She whispered “Rosalie”; the word ran round the arching dome, and then returned—a mocking, hollow voice within the silence. So the morning crept away, with no brightness to speed its dragging hours, no companionship, no occupation. Not a sound fell on her ear. So still was everything, the house might have been a City of the Dead.