"You're as bad as the children," said Mrs. Dennison, laughing gently. "Come, go back to bed. Shall I come and sit by you till it's light?"
The girl seemed not to hear; she drew nearer, searching Mrs. Dennison's face with suspicious eyes. Maggie could not face her; she dropped her glance to the floor and laughed nervously and fretfully. Suddenly Marjory threw herself on the floor at her friend's feet.
"Maggie, come away from here," she beseeched. "Do come; do come away directly. Maggie, dear, I love you so, and—and I was unkind last night. Do come, darling! We'll go back together—back home," and she burst into sobbing.
Maggie Dennison stood passive and motionless, her hands by her side. Her lips quivered and she looked down at the girl kneeling at her feet.
"Won't you come?" moaned Marjory. "Oh, Maggie, there's still time!"
Mrs. Dennison knew what she meant. A strange smile came over her face. Yes, there was time; in a sense there was time, for the uncertain footfalls had not reached their goal—arrested by that cry from the window, they had stopped—wavered—retreated—and were gone. Because a girl had not slept, there was time. Yet what difference did it make that there was still time—to-night? Since to-morrow was coming and must come.
"Time!" she echoed in a whisper.
"For God's sake, come, Maggie! Come to-morrow—you and the children. Come back with them to England! Maggie, I can't stay here!"
Mrs. Dennison put out her hands and took Marjory's.
"Get up," she said, almost roughly, and dragged the girl to her feet. "You can go, Marjory; I—I suppose you're not happy here. You can go."