but what a pity that she was so plain. Perhaps if she got some
colour into her cheeks, dressed better, brushed her hair
differently--no, her mouth would always be too large and her nose
too small--and her figure was absurd. Uncle Mathew considered that
he was a judge of women.

He rose at last and, rather shamefacedly, said that he should go to
bed. Maggie wondered at the confusion that she detected in him. She
looked at him and he dropped his eyes.

"Good night, Uncle Mathew."

He looked at her then and noticed by her white face and dark-lined
eyes what a strain the day had been to her. He saw again the figure
in the shabby black hat sobbing in the lane. He suddenly put his
arms about her and held her close to him. She noticed that he
smelled of whisky, but she felt his kindness, and putting her hand
on his fat shoulder kissed once more his cheek.

When he had left her, her weariness came suddenly down upon her,
overwhelming her as though the roof had fallen in. The lamp swelled
before her tired eyes as though it had been an evil, unhealthy
flower. The table slid into the chairs and the cold beef leered at
the jelly; the pictures jumped and the clock ran in a mad scurry
backwards and forwards.

She dragged her dazed body up through the silent house to her
bedroom, undressed, was instantly in bed and asleep.

She slept without dreams but woke suddenly as though she had been