She blew out the candle and, her arm beneath his head, sat there, watching.
CHAPTER II
HOBGOBLINS
The dawn had made the dark room grey when Maggie, stiff and sore from the strained position in which she had been sitting, went up to her room. She had intended not to go to bed, but weariness overcame her; she lay down on her bed, dressed as she was, and fell into a deep, exhausted slumber.
When she woke it was broad daylight. She was panic-stricken. How could she have slept? And now he might have gone. She washed her face and hands in the horrible little tin basin, brushed her hair, and then, with beating heart, went downstairs. His sitting-room was just as she had left it, the unwashed plates piled together, the red cloth over the window, the dead ashes of the fire in the grate. Very gently she opened his bedroom door. He was still in bed. She went over to him. He was asleep, muttering, his hands clenched on the counterpane. His cheeks were flushed. To her inexperienced eyes he looked very ill.
She touched him on the shoulder and with a start he sprang awake, his eyes wide open with terror, and he crying:
"What is it? No ... no ... don't. Don't."
"It's all right, Martin. It's I, Maggie," she said.
He stared at her; then dropping back on to the pillow, he muttered wearily as though he were worn out after a long struggle: