But the morrow saw her seated again before another scroll of stereotype, still thinking of Samuel Barmby, still hearing his voice. The man was grown hateful to her; he seemed to haunt her brain malignantly, and to paralyse her hand.
Day after day in the room of torture, until all was done. Then upon her long despair followed a wild, unreasoning hope. Though it rained, she walked all the way home, singing, chattering to herself, and reached the house-door without consciousness of the distance she had traversed. Her mother and sister came out into the hall; they had been watching for her.
‘I did a good paper to-day—I think I’ve passed after all—yes, I feel sure I’ve passed!’
‘You look dreadful,’ exclaimed Mrs. Morgan. ‘And you’re wet through—’
‘I did a good paper to-day—I feel sure I’ve passed!’
She sat down to a meal, but could not swallow.
‘I feel sure I’ve passed—I feel sure—’
And she fell from the chair, to all appearances stone-dead.
They took her upstairs, undressed her, sent for the doctor. When he came, she had been lying for half-an-hour conscious, but mute. She looked gravely at him, and said, as if repeating a lesson:
‘The delicacy of a young lady’s nervous system unfits her for such a strain.’