MAGGIE was once more alone. She stood quite still for nearly half a
minute in the center of her room. Her hands were clasped tightly
together. The expression of her face and her attitude showed such
intense feeling as to be almost theatrical. This was no acting,
however; it was Maggie's nature to throw herself into attitudes before
spectators or alone. She required some vent for all her passionate
excitement, and what her girl friends called Miss Oliphant's poses may
have afforded her a certain measure of relief.

After standing still for these few seconds, she ran to the door and
drew the bolt; then, sinking down once more in her easy-chair, she
took up the letter which Rosalind Merton had brought her and began to
read the contents. Four sides of a sheet of paper were covered with
small, close writing, the neat somewhat cramped hand which at that
time characterized the men of St. Hilda's College.

Maggie's eyes seemed to fly over the writing; they absorbed the sense,
they took the full meaning out of each word. At last all was known to
her, burnt in, indeed, upon her brain.

She crushed the letter suddenly in one of her hands, then raised it to
her lips and kissed it; then fiercely, as though she hated it, tossed
it into the fire. After this she sat quiet, her hands folded meekly,
her head slightly bent. The color gradually left her cheeks. She
looked dead tired and languid. After a time she arose, and, walking
very slowly across her room, sat down by her bureau and drew a sheet
of paper before her. As she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the
Greek play which had fascinated her an hour ago. She found herself
again murmuring some lines from Prometheus Vinctus: