"I shan't go," said Maggie Dennison.
Marjory, standing now, shrank back from her.
"You won't go?" she whispered. "Why, what are you staying for?"
"You forget," said Mrs. Dennison coldly. "I'm waiting for my husband."
"Oh!" moaned Marjory, a world of misery and contempt in her voice.
At the tone Mrs. Dennison's face grew rigid, and, if it could be, paler than before; she had been called "liar" to her face, and truly. It was lost to-night her madness mourned—hoped for to-morrow that held her in her place.
The fog was lifting outside; the darkness grew less dense; a distant, dim, cold light began to reveal the day.
"See, it's morning," said Mrs. Dennison. "You needn't be afraid any longer. Won't you go back to your own room, Marjory?"
Marjory nodded. She wore a helpless bewildered look, and she did not speak. She started to cross the room, when Mrs. Dennison asked her,