I am not ill now. I have never been so well before in my life. A moment ago I looked at myself in the glass. The picture enchained me. I stood with the torch-like brass candlestick held high. My uplifted arm was bare as far as the deep lace at my elbow. My eyes shone, my hair fell all about me, almost to my knees. In contrast, my feet were like two lilies, my neck was like a swan’s. And, as I gazed, another veil was withdrawn from the mystery of life. By the light of the candle I saw my own cheeks glow red, as it was revealed to me what it will mean to live without love. What Fate denies me is not only communion with a kindred spirit. I, too, am flesh and blood. Let Susan and Ruddington thank their stars that I was brought up gently, christianly, instead of wickedly, selfishly, in the passion-fraught air of a worldly home. Let them thank their stars that the devil in me has been laid, that the tigress in me has been tamed. If Ruddington were here to-night, if Susan came running hither through that door, how small a thing could sting me past control and rouse me to overwhelm them under my proud anger and pitiless love! I could dash his china shepherdess into a thousand pieces. I could compel him to forsake all and follow me to the end of the world. A memory rises up suddenly and makes me laugh bitterly. Susan at Traxelby. How I smiled at her melodramatics when she knelt down in an agony of fear and made me swear that I would not take him away from her! But I have sworn, and I may not repent. Enough, far more than enough, of this. It is mad, it is sickly, it is contemptible. No more of it, to-night or ever. I will get back into bed, and lie snug, and read till morning. _Wednesday, noon: in bed_. I feel bruised all over, strengthless, stunned. Susan woke me at ten o’clock. _Les Chouans_ had fallen to the floor and the candle at my bedside had burned down to its socket. Susan says that she came in at seven with no less noise than usual. But I was sleeping so soundly that she didn’t like to wake me before ten. While she was propping me up with pillows and pouring out the coffee, I looked round the room and my heart stood still. The letter to Ruddington was gone. My cheeks turned whiter than the sheets. Susan caught me in her arms. "Oh, Miss Gertrude, no, no!" she wailed, "I couldn’t bear it." She thought I was going to die. I opened my eyes and tried to speak. But Susan wailed on. "It’s my fault, Miss, all mine. You’re so good to me, Miss, I ought to have known. I ought to have said, ’Don’t bother about his lordship, Miss, till you’re well and strong.’ But I didn’t think. I’m too selfish, Miss. Oh, Miss Gertrude, to think you were sitting up writing and writing all that, and me snug and warm in bed!" "Susan," I said feebly, asking the question in terror, "What have you done with it?"