After a few turns backward and forward in the room, she abruptly opened her writing-case and began a letter to her sister.  The letter grew and grew under her hands; she filled sheet after sheet of note-paper.  Her heart was full of her subject:  it was her own story addressed to Norah.  She shed no tears; she was composed to a quiet sadness.  Her pen ran smoothly on.  After writing for more than two hours, she left off while the letter was still unfinished.  There was no signature attached to it—­there was a blank space reserved, to be filled up at some other time.  After putting away the case, with the sheets of writing secured inside it, she walked to the window for air, and stood there looking out.

The moon was waning over the sea.  The breeze of the earlier hours had died out.  On earth and ocean, the spirit of the Night brooded in a deep and awful calm.

Her head drooped low on her bosom, and all the view waned before her eyes with the waning moon.  She saw no sea, no sky.  Death, the Tempter, was busy at her heart.  Death, the Tempter, pointed homeward, to the grave of her dead parents in Combe-Raven churchyard.

“Nineteen last birthday,” she thought.  “Only nineteen!” She moved away from the window, hesitated, and then looked out again at the view.  “The beautiful night!” she said, gratefully.  “Oh, the beautiful night!”

She left the window and lay down on her bed.  Sleep, that had come treacherously before, came mercifully now; came deep and dreamless, the image of her last waking thought—­the image of Death.

Early the next morning Mrs. Wragge went into Magdalen’s room, and found that she had risen betimes.  She was sitting before the glass, drawing the comb slowly through and through her hair—­thoughtful and quiet.

“How do you feel this morning, my dear?” asked Mrs. Wragge.  “Quite well again?”

“Yes.”

After replying in the affirmative, she stopped, considered for a moment, and suddenly contradicted herself.

“No,” she said, “not quite well.  I am suffering a little from toothache.”

As she altered her first answer in those words she gave a twist to her hair with the comb, so that it fell forward and hid her face.

At breakfast she was very silent, and she took nothing but a cup of tea.

“Let me go to the chemist’s and get something,” said Mrs. Wragge.

“No, thank you.”

“Do let me!”

“No!”

She refused for the second time, sharply and angrily.  As usual, Mrs. Wragge submitted, and let her have her own way.  When breakfast was over, she rose, without a word of explanation, and went out.  Mrs. Wragge watched her from the window and saw that she took the direction of the chemist’s shop.

On reaching the chemist’s door she stopped—­paused before entering the shop, and looked in at the window—­hesitated, and walked away a little—­hesitated again, and took the first turning which led back to the beach.