“Mollie,” she ventured, “are you awake?”
No answer.
“Mollie”––more insistent, “wake up and let me in.”
Still no response.
“Mollie,” for the third time, “it is I, Annie; may I enter?”
“Come.” The voice was barely audible.
Within the uncomfortably low, dim room the visitor impetuously crossed the earthen floor half-way to a rude bunk built against the wall, then paused, her round, childlike face soberly lengthening.
“Mollie, you have been crying!” she charged, resentfully, as if the act constituted a personal offence. “You can’t deceive me. The pillow is soaked, and your eyes are red.” She came forward, impulsively, and threw herself on the bed, her arm about the other. 251
“What is it? Tell me––your friend––Annie.”
Beneath the light coverlet, Mollie Babcock made a motion of deprecation, almost of repugnance.