“Here,” she said, still in the same cruel voice. “Sit up and drink this.”
“What is it?” moaned Lily.
“Never mind what it is. Sit up and drink it.”
Lily sat up and obediently drank the wine, every drop.
“Now lie down and keep still, and go to sleep, and behave yourself,” said Maria.
Lily tried to say something, but Maria would not listen to her.
“Don't you speak another word,” said she. “Keep still, or Aunt Maria will be up. Lie still and go to sleep.”
It was not long before, warmed by the wine and comforted by Maria's assertion that she was never going to marry George Ramsey, that Lily fell asleep. Maria lay awake hearing her long, even breaths, and she felt how she hated her, how she hated herself, how she hated life. There was no sleep for her. Just before dawn she woke Lily, bundled her up in some extra clothing, and went with her across the yard, home.
“Now go up to your own room just as still as you can,” said she, and her voice sounded terrible even in her own ears. She waited until she heard the key softly turn in the door of the Merrill house. Then she sped home and up to her own room. Then she lay down in bed again and waited for broad daylight.