Though she could not sleep, she lay down, trying to rest. The day had told upon her in an aching fatigue, and she must save the strength that remained for what was coming. Towards morning she slept a very little.

In Glasgow she found there was a coast train she might catch with a rush, and a later one which would give her time for some tea and a wash. “Don’t worry,” Linnet had said. But Joanna raced for the first train, and scrambled into it as it was moving.

On the steamer she swallowed some breakfast, though the thick, round oaten biscuits, which in childhood she had enjoyed, were as sawdust in her mouth. It was a rough, bright crossing. There was a band, to which the plunging paddle seemed to keep time and all the white, churned wake to dance. Everything recalled the unforgettable journeys of childhood … with piles of luggage, baths with straps round them, perambulators, bags of biscuits for the seagulls … their father pacing the deck springily, laughing with the wind in his beard … their mother falling asleep in a sheltered corner with a tired, happy face. But now all the blown people on the deck looked like ghosts.

Upon landing she was told that no coach ran till the arrival of the next steamer, an hour later. So she started on foot, leaving her bag to follow by coach. She set out at a good pace, but very soon her fears made the slowness of walking unbearable, and she broke into a run. She ran till her breath came in agonizing gasps and she was forced to walk again. She was not to worry … It was probably only a bad cold, or perhaps another gastric attack like the one at the time of the removal – nothing really serious. But the question was, would she get there in time? If she went on walking she would be too late. So she ran again. And so she kept on running and then walking, and then running again – but mostly running – all the way along the winding, coast road, with her eyes continuously dazzled by the glittering morning sea. She had about four miles to go.

At last. There was the cottage! It was the very end one at the far-away end of a row of small, white cottages, some thatched, some slated, which stood only about half a mile ahead round the bay. Everything looked as it had looked on the morning, little more than a week before, when Joanna had left for London. The peat smoke rose comfortingly from the chimneys into the pale blue sky: dogs barked: children were playing on the road between the cottages and the sea.

And there was Linnet!

He waved his hand, shouted, disappeared into the cottage, and in less than half a minute came out again and began running towards her.