"And—after that—he asked me—to write to him. Mother, mother, you do not know what you have done!"
Marjorie fled away in the dark up to her own little chamber, threw herself down on the bed without undressing, and lay all night, moaning and weeping.
She prayed beside; she could not be in trouble and not give the first breath of it to the Lord. Hollis had asked her to write because of what her mother had said to him. He believed—what did he believe?
"O, mother! mother!" she moaned, "you are so good and so lovely, and yet you have hurt me so. How could you? How could you?"
While the clock in Mrs. Kemlo's room was striking six, a light flashed across her eyes. Her mother stood at the bedside with a lighted candle in her hand.
"I was afraid you would oversleep. Why, child! Didn't you undress?
Haven't you had anything but that quilt over you?"
"Mother, I am not going; I never want to see Hollis again," cried
Marjorie weakly.
"Nonsense child," answered her mother energetically.
"It is not nonsense. I will not go to New York."
"What will they all think?"