Lucy's candle was out.

A wick floating on oil gave a faint light in one corner of the room.

Across the open window a muslin curtain had been drawn, to keep out bats and moths.
But the moonlight streamed through, and lay in patches on the brick floor.
And in this uncertain illumination Lucy could just see the dark pits of Eleanor's eyes, the sharp slightness of her form, the dim wreath of hair.
'You may be quite happy,' said Eleanor bending over her, and speaking almost in a whisper.

'She is much quieter.

They have given her a stronger sleeping draught and locked all the doors--except the door into Dalgetty's room.