Her High-and-Mightiness, the nurse, long since relieved of her occupation, was telegraphed for from London. She came and bent over the familiar bed and put her hand on the hot forehead. But Stella withdrew from the once-cooling touch, and closed her ears to the gentle words, for they seemed to be the touch and the words of the woman with the pale, cruel eyes and the thin lips. All night long she could not sleep, tormented by the presence of the watcher in the room. Outside the night was dark, and a fine rain fell. Within, the lamp of Stellamaris burned in the western window of the sea-chamber. For the first time in her life she longed for the blackness; but she could not speak to the watching shape, and she clenched her teeth. Her brain, on fire, conceived the notion that she was caught in one of the Cities of the Plain, and far above her floated a little, dazzling, white cloud, which mockingly invited her to mount on its back and soar with it into the infinite blue. After the dawn had broken, she fell asleep exhausted, and the sun was high when she awoke. The nurse, who had been watching her, bent down. “Are you feeling better, dear?” She smiled at the well-known face. “Yes, High-and-Mightiness,” she said. They were the first words she had spoken since the day before. She raised her head, and suddenly memory awoke, too, and the horror swooped down upon her like a vast-winged, evil bird. She sank again on the pillow and hid her eyes with her hand. “The light too strong, dear?” Stella nodded. Words and shapes were now clearly defined. The nurse took her temperature. It was virtually normal. “It must have been a touch of the sun, darling, as the doctor said,” remarked the nurse. “But, thank heavens! you 're better. You gave us all such a fright.” “I'm sorry,” said Stella. “It was n't my fault.” IT was a new and baffling Stellamaris that entered the world again. She went about the house silent and preoccupied. Joy was quenched in her eyes, and her features hardened. The lifelong terms of endearment from the two old people met with no response. Their morning and evening kisses she endured passively. They had become to her as strangers, having gradually undergone a curious metamorphosis from the Great High Excellency and Most Exquisite Auntship of her childhood into a certain Sir Oliver and Lady Blount, personages of bone and flesh of an abominable world, in whom she could place no trust. One evening before going up-stairs, she picked up a French novel which Sir Oliver had left in the drawing-room. “Don't read that, Stella dear,” said Lady Blount. “Why?” asked Stella. “I don't think it's suitable for young girls.” “Is it unclean?” “My darling, what an extraordinary word!” said Lady Blount. “Is it unclean?” Stella persisted. “It deals with a certain side of life that is not wholesome for young girls to dwell upon.” “You have n't answered my question, Auntie.”