Suddenly she awoke and found herself staring towards panes exquisite with the frost’s engravings, and beyond them a blue sky which made it seem that this earth was a flaw at the heart of a jewel.  Words were on her lips.  “Christ is risen, Christ is risen.”  It was something she had read in a book; she did not know why she was saying it.  The clock said that it was half-past eight, so she leaped out of bed into the vibrant cold, and bathed and dressed.  Her sense of ruin was like lead, but was somehow the cause of exultation in her heart as the clapper is the cause of the peal of a bell.  She went and knocked on Ellen’s door.  There was no answer, so she stole in and stood at the end of the bed, and looked with laughter on the heap of bedclothes, the pair of unravelling plaits that were all that was to be seen of the girl.

“Ellen,” she said.

The child woke up as children do, stretching and sulking.  Marion loved her.  She must suffice instead of the other child, the boy that should have slept in the room of the corridor in Torque Hall.

“Ellen, something wonderful has happened.  Guess what it is.”

Ellen lay on her back and speculated sleepily.  Her little nose waggled like a rabbit’s.  Suddenly she shot up her head.

“I know.  We’ve got the vote.”

“Not quite as good as that.  But Richard’s come.”

The girl sat up.  “When did he come?”

“Last night.”

“Last night?  Would I have seen him if I’d stayed up longer?”

“No.  He came very late indeed.  It was really this morning.”

Ellen sighed with relief.  “Then the occasion’s pairfect, for I’ve nothing to reproach myself with.”  She put her hand on one side and said shyly, “Please, I’d like to get up.”  Marion still hovered, till she noticed the girl’s eyes were unhappy and that she was holding the sheet high up to the base of her white throat, and perceived that she was too modest to rise when anyone else was in the room.  “How wise you are, my dear,” she thought, and she left the room.  “You are quite right; secrets lose their value when they are disclosed....”

She went down and ate her breakfast before a long window that showed a glittering, rimy world and in the foreground a plump, strutting robin.  Ordinarily she would not have been amused by his red-waisted convexity, for she regarded animals with an extreme form of that indifference she felt for all living beings who were not members of her family, but to-day, she scattered it some crumbs.  After that she walked to the end of the garden and looked down on the estuary’s morning face.  It was a silver plate on which there lay but a drop of deeply blue water, and the floating boats seemed like flies settled there to drink.  The shining green marshes were neatly ruled with lines of unmelted frost that scored the unsunned westerly side of every bank, and the tiny grizzled trees and houses here and there might have been toys made of crockery, like the china cottages that stand on farmstead mantelpieces.  From the chimneys above the rime-checkered slates of the harbour houses a hundred smoke-plumes stood tenuous and erect, like fastidious and honest souls, in the crystalline air.  This was an undismayed world that had scoured itself cheerfully for the dawn, no matter what that might bring.  She nodded her head, seeing the lesson that it read to her.