She had had many dark hours since that fateful month of April.

At night, trying to sleep, she had heard the ghostly footsteps in the church, which had sent her flying homeward.
Then, there was the hood.

She had waited on and on, fearing word would come that it had been found in the churchyard, and that she had been seen putting the cross back upon the church door.

As day after day passed she had come at length to realise that, whatever had happened to the hood, she was not suspected.

Yet the whole train of circumstances had a supernatural air, for the Cure and Jo Portugais had not made public their experience on the eventful night; she had been educated in a land of legend and superstition, and a deep impression had been made upon her mind, giving to her other new emotions a touch of pathos, of imagination, and adding character to her face.