A kind of recklessness seized her; it seemed so useless to try and make ends meet, with reduced dividends and abnormal taxes, and then she was so terribly tired. Her tiredness had become like physical pain, it enveloped her and prevented sleep. She did the simplest things with a feeling of reluctance, dragging her body after her like a corpse to which she was attached. If there was not enough money for immediate necessities, why then they must sell out a little capital. She feared opposition from her mother, but decided that the time had arrived when desperate straits required desperate remedies, so broached the subject without preliminaries. "Mother, we're behindhand with the bills, and we can't very well overdraw again at the bank." Mrs. Ogden looked up with dim, brown eyes. "Are we, dear?" she said indifferently. "Yes, the doctor's bill cripples us most, and then there are others, but his is the worst." "It would be," sighed Mrs. Ogden. "Listen, Mother, I'm afraid we must sell a little of Milly's and my capital; not much, you know, but just enough to get us straight. Perhaps when things get cheaper, later on, we may be able to put it back." "My pension used to be enough, with the other money; why isn't it now, do you think?" Joan sighed impatiently. "Because it's worth about half what it was. Have you forgotten the war?" "No, that terrible war! Still, to sell capital--isn't that very wrong, Joan?" "It may be wrong, but we've got to do it; things may be easier next year." Mrs. Ogden offered no further opposition and the stocks and shares were sold. Like the Indian silver, they realized much less than Joan expected. But poor as were the results of the sacrifice, when the gilt-edged securities were translated into cash, Joan felt that the sum she deposited at the bank gave a moment's respite to her tired brain. She refused to consider the future. 2 In June Mrs. Ogden died quietly in her sleep. Joan found her dead one morning, when she went in to call her as usual. She stood and stared incredulously at the pale, calm face on the pillow; a face that seemed to belong to a much younger woman. She turned away and lowered the blind gently, then went downstairs in search of the servant. A great hush enveloped the house, and the queer sense of awe that accompanies death had stolen in during the night and now lay over everything. Joan pushed open the kitchen door; here, at all events, some of the old familiarity remained. The sun was streaming in at the uncurtained window and the sound of hissing came from the stove, where the maid was frying sausages. Joan said: "Go for the doctor at once, will you? My mother died in the night." The girl dropped her fork into the frying-pan and swung round with frightened eyes. "Oh, Lor'!" she gasped, beginning to whimper. But for the first time in her life, Joan had fainted. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE 1