There was something she had to do, and even while she strove to discover it she had slipped from bed and pattered across the floor. She ran with a swift sureness down the stairs and through the hall. The locks and bolts of the front-door yielded to her fever, and then the night air smote her and the cold of the steps shocked her feet. "What am I doing?" she asked. What little wind there was moaned stealthily among the elms, and on the house-wall the ivy-leaves scratched each other. The lawn stretched before her like water of an unimagined blackness. "I must have been asleep," she murmured, looking at the night for confirmation, but its waiting patience made her no answer. She thought all the trees had faces that looked kindly on her. She was not afraid of the night, yet it was imminent and sorrowful with doom. Something was going to happen. "I had to do something," she said in a strange voice, and closed the door. Her fingers were weak now, and slow. Her strength had gone and she was very cold. She stood shivering in the hall, trying to solve this mystery. Had she been warned in some way? Was the house on fire? She sniffed earnestly. There were no signs anywhere of danger or disturbance, and she turned to climb the stairs. Half-way up she began to run. Where was her letter? She had forgotten her letter. Someone had stolen it, and, stealing it, had waked her. But she found it, crumpled, in the bed. "I don't understand," she said, and lay long awake, conquering the cold of her body and the puzzle of her mind. When the morning came through the windows, she was lying deep in the bed, as though she were rooted to it and she was conscious of a fatigue she had not known before. It was her habit to spring from bed with the first opening of her eyes, but this morning she had to be reminded of coming battle before she could be roused, and then the adventurous spirit that welcomed any new experience, and would have dreadful ones rather than none, took command over her tired frame. She had an enigmatical smile for Morton at the breakfast table, and afterwards, when he would have smoked a pipe before the fire, she was imperative. "Come into the garden quickly," she said. "He would like to read the newspaper first, dear. He always likes to read the paper and have a pipe." She clapped her hands together. "He must come into the garden with me." He glanced at her feet. "Put your shoes on first, darling." "And you would like my woolly shawl." "My slippers are thick, and I don't want a shawl, or anything, thank you. I'm burning. Are you coming, Basil? Can't you see--can't you see that you must come?" She ran out before him and on to the lawn, and the wind caught her hair and buffeted her so that she had to lean against it to find rest. She watched his slow approach, and as soon as he was close to her she said clearly, loudly, because of the wind: "I can't marry you." "What?" He took her by the arm and stooped. "What did you say?"