dear face. Father will be home in the dawning.
I will watch for his coming. If he goes to bed at once I may get away
before any person sees me. If he sits and talks to mother, I may hear
something that will give me courage to say, 'I am here! Forgive me!'
I must trust to luck--no, no, to God's pity for me!"

Thinking thus, she lay in weary abandon on her childhood's bed. The
monotonous tick of the old clock, the simmering of the kettle on the
hob, and the deep undertone of the ocean soothed her like a familiar,
unforgotten lullaby. In a few minutes she had fallen into a deep,
dreamless sleep.

She was asleep when Joan returned. Joan had gone to her neighbour's to
ask a question about the boats, and she remained there for more than
an hour. For Ann Trewillow had heard of Roland's arrival in the
village, and she and Joan had some opinions to express on the subject.
So that when Joan returned to her own cottage, it was with her heart
beating to memories of her daughter.

She put a little more coal on her fire and then went for a drink of
water. The tin cup was not in its usual place, for Denas had left
it on the table. Joan looked at the cup with a face full of
questions. Had she left it there? She never before had done such a
thing. Who then had been in her house? Who had been drinking from her
water-bucket? She asked the questions idly, without fear, but with a
certain curiosity as to her unknown visitor. Then she put more water
into the kettle and set a cup and saucer for her husband in case
he wanted a drink of hot tea when he came in from the fishing. All
the time she was thinking of Denas, and the girl seemed to grow
into the air beside her; she felt that if she whispered "Denas"
she might hear the beloved voice answer "Mother."

Unknown to any mortal, Joan had made a kind of idol of the pictured
Denasia. She was sorry for her weakness in this matter, but she was
not able to resist the temptation of very frequently opening the
drawer in which it lay, of looking at it, and of kissing it. Her
conversation, her thoughts, her fancies made her child-sick. She
longed for a sight of her darling's face, and she lifted a candle and
went to the door of the room in which it lay hidden.

There was always an unacknowledged sense of self-indulgence in this
act, and the sense made her go a little softly about it, as if it had
to be done secretly. She opened the door slowly, and the rush candle
showed her clothing scattered ab