Lying there uncomfortably in the thick darkness, with her mother's hand held limply in her own, she would stare out in front of her with aching eyes and think. During those wakeful hours her brain worked furiously, her vision became appallingly clear and all-embracing. She reviewed her short past and her probably long future; she seemed to stand outside herself, a sympathetic spectator of Joan Ogden. When she slept she did so fitfully and the sleep was not refreshing. She must hire a camp bed she told herself over and over again, but where to put it when it came? There was not a foot of unused space in the bedroom. She thought seriously of flinging herself on Milly's mercy, and begging to be taken back into their old room, but a sense of self-preservation stopped her. She was certain, whatever the doctor said, that Milly's lungs were diseased, and she did not want to catch consumption and probably die of it. Queer that, for there was not much to live for in all conscience, and yet she was quite sure that she did not want to die. With the morning would usually come a gleam of hope; perhaps on that day she would see Elizabeth, perhaps they would be as they had been, the dreadful barrier of coldness having somehow disappeared in the night. Sometimes she did see Elizabeth, it is true, but the barrier was still there, and these meetings were empty and unfruitful. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 1 THAT August Joan's worst fears were justified, for Milly began to spit blood. Trying to play her violin one morning she was overtaken by a fit of coughing; she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. "Oh! Look, look, Joan, what is it? Oh, I'm frightened!" They sent for Doctor Thomas, who ordered Milly to bed and examined her. His face was grey when he looked up at Joan, and they left the room together and went downstairs to Mrs. Ogden. "It's terribly sudden and quite unexpected," Doctor Thomas said. "But I simply can't believe it," wailed Mrs. Ogden. "She comes of such healthy stock, I simply can't believe it!" "I'm afraid there is very little doubt, Mrs. Ogden; I myself have no doubt. Still, we had better have a consultation." Mrs. Ogden protested: "But blood may come from all sorts of places; her stomach, her throat. She may even have bitten her tongue, poor child, when she was coughing." The doctor shook his head. "No," he said; "I'm afraid not; but I should like to have a consultation at once, if you don't mind." "I will not have a specialist in my house again," Mrs. Ogden repeated for about the fiftieth time in the last few months. "It was your specialist who killed my poor James!" The doctor looked helplessly at Joan, and she saw fear in his old eyes. She felt certain that he was conscious of having made a terrible mistake, and was asking her dumbly to forgive, and to help him. His mouth worked a little as he took off his dimmed glasses to polish them.