Later on disturbing thoughts came to her. Why had May ceased to show any emotion? Why had she become quiet and self-contained? That wasn't a good sign. And what about to-morrow? Did she mean to go? She had said nothing, but she might have made up her mind to go. And there was Jim going in and out and doing _nothing_! Oh, why couldn't the dear things see that they were made for one another? Why couldn't they go about mysterious, blown up with self-importance--and engaged? When Louise came in she found her mistress still awake. "Louise, before you settle me, see if Mrs. Dashwood has gone to bed. Don't disturb her, of course." "Bien, Madame," said Louise; and she left the room with the air of one who is going to fathom a mystery. "What a nuisance Louise is," sighed Lady Dashwood, turning on her pillow. She did not turn her head again when Louise came back. "Madame is not in her room," said Louise, in a voice of profound interest, and she waited to hear the result. "Oh!" said Lady Dashwood, brightening a little. "Well, Louise, light a night light and leave it at the other end of the room, so that the light doesn't come on my face! I don't want to be in complete darkness or the Warden will not come in. He will think I am asleep." "Madame will not sleep?" demanded Louise. "Of course I shall sleep," said Lady Dashwood, and she began thinking again. CHAPTER XXXI A FAREWELL When May went back again to the drawing-room she did not sit down immediately but walked round, taking up the books that were lying about. Some she had read, and the book she had taken up by accident before dinner did not interest her. She took up one after another and read the title, and then, seeing a small soft yellow volume full of verse, she carried it with her to her chair. She might be able to read and follow something slight; she could not concentrate herself on anything that needed thought. She opened the volume. It was an anthology of Victorian verse. She began looking through it. She read and read--at least she turned over page after page, following the sense here and there. Books could not distract her from painful thoughts about herself; hard work with hands and eyes, work such as hers would be able to distract her. She was relying upon it to do so; she felt that her work was her refuge. She was thankful that she had a refuge--very thankful, and yet she was counting how many more hours she still had before her in Oxford. There she showed her weakness; she knew that every hour in Oxford meant pain, and yet she did not want to go away! At last she had turned over all the pages and had come to the last page. There her eyes were caught, and they held on to some printed words. She read! The words were like the echo of a voice, a voice that thrilled her even in memory! "And the Glory of the Lord shall be all in all." She read the poem through and through again. It took hold of her.