The words startled her and her hand shook so that some of the laudanum was spilled.  It was long since she had heard her own voice in more than a monosyllabic answer to some necessary question.  Inscrutably veiled in many folds of chiffon, she held herself apart from the world, and the world, carelessly kind, had left her wholly to herself.

Slowly, she put the cork tightly into the vial and slipped it back into her bag.  “Tomorrow,” she sighed; “to-morrow I shall set myself free.”

The fire flickered and without warning the candle went out, in a gust of wind which shook the house to its foundations.  Stray currents of air had come through the crevices of the rattling windows and kept up an imperfect ventilation.  She took another candle from her satchel, put it into a candlestick of blackened brass, and slowly ascended the stairs.

She went to her own room, though her feet failed her at the threshold and she sank helplessly to the floor.  Too weak to stand, she made her way on her knees to her bed, leaving the candle in the hall, just outside her door.  As she had suspected, it was hardest of all to enter this room.

A pink and white gown of dimity, yellowed, and grimed with dust, yet lay upon her bed.  Cobwebs were woven over the lace that trimmed the neck and sleeves.  Out of the fearful shadows, mute reminders of a lost joy mocked her from every corner of the room.

She knelt there until some measure of strength came back to her, and, with it, a mad fancy.  “To-night,” she said to herself, “I will be brave.  For once I will play a part, since to-morrow I shall be free.  To-night, it shall be as though nothing had happened—­as though I were to be married to-morrow and not to—­to Death!”

She laughed wildly, and, even to her own ears, it had a fantastic, unearthly sound.  The empty rooms took up the echo and made merry with it, the sound dying at last into a silence like that of the tomb.

She brought in the candle, took the dimity gown from the bed, and shook it to remove the dust.  In her hands it fell apart, broken, because it was too frail to tear.  She laid it on a chair, folding it carefully, then took the dusty bedding from her bed and carried it into the hall, dust and all.  In an oaken chest in a corner of her room was her store of linen, hemmed exquisitely and embroidered with the initials:  “E.  G.”

She began to move about feverishly, fearing that her resolution might fail.  The key of the chest was in a drawer in her dresser, hidden beneath a pile of yellowed garments.  Her hands, so long nerveless, were alive and sentient now.  When she opened the chest, the scent of lavender and rosemary, long since dead, struck her like a blow.

The room swam before her, yet Miss Evelina dragged forth her linen sheets and pillow-slips, musty, but clean, and made her bed.  Once or twice, her veil slipped down over her face, and she impatiently pushed it back.  The candle, burning low, warned her that she must make haste,