"I thought you would come back to me, my daughter. I've watched for you a great while."
She smiled at that, pushing away her falling hair.
"Mother, I'm so sorry."
"Yes, Maggie."
"And oh!" she threw out her arms; "O, I'm so tired, I'm so tired!"
Her mother raised her, laying her head upon her shoulder.
"Mother'll rest you, Maggie," soothing her, as if she sang again her first lullaby, when she came to her, the little pure baby,—her only one.
"Mother," once more, "the door was unlocked."
"It has been unlocked every night for seven years, my child."
She closed her eyes after that, some stupor creeping over her, her features in the firelight softening and melting, with the old child-look coming into them. Looking up at last, she saw another face bending over her, a face in which grief had worn stern lines; there were tears in the eyes, and some recent struggle quivering out of it.