Then as her mind returned back to her uncle she felt with a throb of excited anticipation that perhaps after all this evening was to prove the turning-point of her life. Her little escape into the streets, her posting of the letter, had been followed so immediately by Uncle Mathew's visit, and now this invitation! "No one can keep me if I want to go," and the old cuckoo-clock outside seemed to tick in reply: "Can no one keep her if she wants to go?" She finished her preparations; as she fastened the coral necklace round her neck the face of Martin Warlock was suddenly before her. He had been perhaps at her elbow all day. "I like him and I think he likes me," she said to the mirror. "I've got one friend," and her thought still further was that even if he didn't like her he couldn't prevent her liking him. She went down to the drawing-room and found Uncle Mathew, alone, waiting for her. "Here I am, Maggie," he said. "And let's get out of this as quick as we can." "I must go and say good-night to the aunts," she said. She went upstairs to Aunt Anne's bedroom. Entering it was always to her like passing into a shadowed church after the hot sunshine--the long, thin room with high slender windows, the long hard bed, of the most perfect whiteness and neatness, the heavy black-framed picture of "The Ascension" over the bed, and the utter stillness broken by no sound of clock or bell--even the fire seemed frozen into a glassy purity in the grate. Her aunt was sitting, as so often Maggie found her, in a stiff-backed chair, her hands folded on her lap, staring in front of her. Her eyes were like the open eyes of a dead woman; it was as though, with a great effort of almost desperate concentration, she were driving her vision against some obstinate world of opposition, and the whole of life had meanwhile stayed to watch the issue. A thin pale light from some street lamp lay, a faintly golden shadow, across the white ceiling. Maggie stood by the door. "I've come to say good-night, aunt." "Ah, Maggie dear, is that you?" The pale oval face turned towards her. "You won't be very late, will you?" "Hadn't I better have a key, not to bother Martha?" "Oh, Martha won't have gone to bed." Maggie felt as though her whole evening would be spoilt did she know that Martha was waiting for her at the end of it. "Oh, but it will be such a pity--" "Martha will let you in, dear. Come and kiss me; I hope that you'll enjoy yourself." And then the strangest thing happened. Maggie bent down. She felt a tear upon her cheek and then the thin strong arms held her, for an instant, in an almost threatening embrace. "Good-night, dear aunt," she said; but, outside the room, she had to stand for a moment in the dark passage to regain her control; her heart was beating with wild unreasoning terror. Although she had brushed her cheek with her hand the cold touch of the tears still lingered there.