Her mother died suddenly during her last term, and Joan hurried back to attend the funeral.  Her father was out when she reached home.  Joan changed her travel-dusty clothes, and then went into the room where her mother lay, and closed the door.  She must have been a beautiful woman.  Now that the fret and the restlessness had left her it had come back to her.  The passionate eyes were closed.  Joan kissed the marble lids, and drawing a chair to the bedside, sat down.  It grieved her that she had never loved her mother—­not as one ought to love one’s mother, unquestioningly, unreasoningly, as a natural instinct.  For a moment a strange thought came to her, and swiftly, almost guiltily, she stole across, and drawing back a corner of the blind, examined closely her own features in the glass, comparing them with the face of the dead woman, thus called upon to be a silent witness for or against the living.  Joan drew a sigh of relief and let fall the blind.  There could be no misreading the evidence.  Death had smoothed away the lines, given back youth.  It was almost uncanny, the likeness between them.  It might have been her drowned sister lying there.  And they had never known one another.  Had this also been temperament again, keeping them apart?  Why did it imprison us each one as in a moving cell, so that we never could stretch out our arms to one another, except when at rare intervals Love or Death would unlock for a while the key?  Impossible that two beings should have been so alike in feature without being more or less alike in thought and feeling.  Whose fault had it been?  Surely her own; she was so hideously calculating.  Even Mrs. Munday, because the old lady had been fond of her and had shown it, had been of more service to her, more a companion, had been nearer to her than her own mother.  In self-excuse she recalled the two or three occasions when she had tried to win her mother.  But fate seemed to have decreed that their moods should never correspond.  Her mother’s sudden fierce outbursts of love, when she would be jealous, exacting, almost cruel, had frightened her when she was a child, and later on had bored her.  Other daughters would have shown patience, unselfishness, but she had always been so self-centred.  Why had she never fallen in love like other girls?  There had been a boy at Brighton when she was at school there—­quite a nice boy, who had written her wildly extravagant love-letters.  It must have cost him half his pocket-money to get them smuggled in to her.  Why had she only been amused at them?  They might have been beautiful if only one had read them with sympathy.  One day he had caught her alone on the Downs.  Evidently he had made it his business to hang about every day waiting for some such chance.  He had gone down on his knees and kissed her feet, and had been so abject, so pitiful that she had given him some flowers she was wearing.  And he had sworn to dedicate the rest of his life to being worthy