What was it in her?
Would she always, through life, miss the things for which she longed through her coldness and obstinacy?
She took her father's photograph, stared at it, gazed into it, held it in an agony of remorse.

She shivered in the cold of her room but did not know it.

Her candle, caught in some draught, blew out, and instantly the white world without leapt in upon her and her room was lit with a strange unearthly glow.

She saw nothing but her father.

At last she fell asleep in the chair, clutching in her hand the photograph.
Thus her aunt found her, later in the evening.