re
dinner did not interest her. She took up one after another and read the
title, and then, seeing a small soft yellow volume full of verse, she
carried it with her to her chair. She might be able to read and follow
something slight; she could not concentrate herself on anything that
needed thought.

She opened the volume. It was an anthology of Victorian verse. She began
looking through it. She read and read--at least she turned over page
after page, following the sense here and there. Books could not distract
her from painful thoughts about herself; hard work with hands and eyes,
work such as hers would be able to distract her. She was relying upon it
to do so; she felt that her work was her refuge. She was thankful that
she had a refuge--very thankful, and yet she was counting how many more
hours she still had before her in Oxford. There she showed her weakness;
she knew that every hour in Oxford meant pain, and yet she did not want
to go away! At last she had turned over all the pages and had come to
the last page. There her eyes were caught, and they held on to some
printed words. She read! The words were like the echo of a voice, a
voice that thrilled her even in memory!

"And the Glory of the Lord shall be all in all."

She read the poem through and through again. It took hold of her.

She sat musing over it. The clock struck ten. To sit on and on was like
waiting for him! She resented the thought bitterly. She rose from her
chair, meaning to take the book up with her to her room. To have it
beside her would be a little consolation. She would read it through
again the last thing before trying to sleep. She was already walking to
the door, very slowly, her will compelling unwilling limbs.

"You are just going?" said the Warden's voice. He had suddenly opened
the door and stood before her.

"I was going," she said, and held on to the book, open as it was at the
last page. "Have you just come back from dinner?"

"I have just come back," he said, and he closed the door behind him. But
he stayed near the door, for May was standing just where she had stood
when he came in, the book in her hand. "I regretted very much that you
should be alone this last evening of your stay----" He paused and looked
at her.

"I ought to have asked some one to dine with you. I am so little
accustomed to guests, but I ought to have thought of it."

"I am used to being alone in the evening," said May, now smoothing the
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