"He don't turn me off; he don't know; he thinks I'm nobody but Maggie."
How long she lay so, she did not know. It might have been minutes, it might have been hours; her eyes wandering all about the room, growing brighter too, and clearer. They would know now that she had come back; that she wanted to see them; that she had crawled into the old room to die; that Muff had not forgotten her. Perhaps, perhaps they would look at her not unkindly, and cry over her just a little, for the sake of the child they used to love.
Martha Ryck, coming in at last, found her with her long hair falling over her face, her arms still about the dog, lying there in the firelight.
The woman's eyelids fluttered for an instant, her lips moving dryly; but she made no sound. She came up, knelt upon the floor, pushed Muff gently away, and took her child's head upon her lap.
"Maggie!"
She opened her eyes and looked up.
"Mother's glad to see you, Maggie."
The girl tried to smile, her face all quivering.
"Mother, I—I wanted you. I thought I wasn't fit."
Her mother stooped and kissed her lips,—the polluted, purple lips, that trembled so.