She sat upright in her straight-backed chair before the table, her eyes half closed.

It seemed so odd to see those little work-worn hands idle upon her lap.
Joan's present lay on the table near to her, as if she had just folded it and placed it there: the little cap and the fine robe of lawn: as if for a king's child.
Joan had never thought that Death could be so beautiful.

It was as if some friend had looked in at the door, and, seeing her so tired, had taken the work gently from her hands, and had folded them upon her lap.
And she had yielded with a smile.
Joan heard a faint rustle and looked up.

A woman had entered.

It was the girl she had met there on a Christmas Day, a Miss Ensor.