Miss Jean’s voice faltered as she read that the handkerchief had been sent to the young man’s mother. “Poor leddy, poor leddy!” she said, “the Lord help her in her trouble.” And little exclamations of pity and emotion rose from various voices--but suddenly they were all stilled. No one was aware how the consciousness first arose. By means of a communication swiftly and silently conveyed from one to another, the eyes of all were suddenly turned towards Kirsteen who, with the light from the large window full upon her, sat surrounded by trails of the beautiful silk which she had been manipulating. She had looked up, her lips had dropped apart, her hands still holding the silk had fallen upon her lap. Her face was without a trace of colour, her bosom still as if she were no longer breathing. She looked like some one suddenly turned into marble, the warm tint of her hair exaggerating, if that were possible, the awful whiteness. They expected her every moment to fall down, like something inanimate in which no life was. But she did not do this--and nobody dared interfere, partly from fear of this sudden catastrophe whatever it was, partly from fear of her. They all sat not venturing to move, looking at her, ready to spring to her assistance, not daring to take any step. After a moment, she drew a long breath, then with a little start as of awakening raised her hands and looked at them, all enveloped as they were in the silk. “What--was I--doing?” she said. She moved her hands feebly, twisting the silk round them more and more, then tore it off and flung it from her on the floor. “I can’t remember what I was doing,” she said. “Oh, my dear,” cried Miss Jean, coming towards her putting down the paper, “never mind what you were doing--come to your own room.” “Why should I come--to my own room? What’s there?” A gleam of consciousness came over her colourless face. “It’s not there!--it cannot be there!” “Oh, my darling,” cried Miss Jean, “come away with me--come away, where you can be quiet.”