evening dusk the walls of her attic to see whether there too
verses had been scribbled. Now, obscure in the corner of her carriage,
she felt as though the telegram had been a pencilled message presaging
some great event that would shortly change her life.

It was a dark and gloomy day, misty with a gale of wind that blew the
smoke into curls and eddies against the sky. There seemed to be a roar
about the vast London station that threatened her personally, but she
beat down her fears, found a taxi, and gave the driver the
well-remembered address.

As they drove along she felt how much older, how much older she was
then than when she was last in London. Then she had been ignorant of
all life and the world, now she felt that she was an old, old woman
with an infinite knowledge of marriage and men and women and the way
they lived. She looked upon her aunts and indeed all that world that
had surrounded the Chapel as something infinitely childish, and for
that reason rather sweet and touching. She could be kind and friendly
even to Amy Warlock she thought. She wished that she had some excuse so
that she might stay in London a week or two. She felt that she could
stretch her limbs and breathe again now that she was out of Grace's
sight.

And she would find out Uncle Mathew's address and pay him a surprise
visit ... She laughed in the cab and felt gay and light-hearted until
she remembered the cause of her visit. Poor, poor Aunt Anne! Oh, she
did hope that she would be well enough to recognise her and to show
pleasure at seeing her. The cab had stopped in the well-remembered
street before the same old secret-looking house. Nothing seemed to have
changed, and the sight of it all brought Martin back to her with so
fierce a pang that for a moment breath seemed to leave her body. It was
just near here, only a few steps away, that he had suddenly appeared,
as though from the very paving-stones, when she had been with Uncle
Mathew, and then had gone to supper with him. It was from this door
that he had run on that last desperate day. She looked up at the
windows; the blinds were not down; her aunt was yet alive; she paid the
taxi and rang the bell.

The door was opened by Martha, who seemed infinitely older and more
wrinkled than on the last occasion, her old face was yellow like drawn
parchment and her thin grey hairs were pasted back over her old skull;
she was wearing black mittens.

"Miss Maggie!" and there was a real welco