aining, but I don't know about anything yet, do I? I
can't even find my way when I'm out with Aunt Elizabeth. And I'm afraid
I'll never be really good enough to be religious. Perhaps if Father'd
wanted me to be I might be now, but he never cared ... I hope you won't
be angry, Aunt Anne, but I didn't like to-night--I didn't really. When
I was there I thought that soon I'd begin to cry like the others, but
it was only because every one else was crying--not because I wanted to.
I hope you won't be angry, but I'm afraid I'll never be religious as
you and Aunt Elizabeth want me to be; so don't you think it will be
better for me to start learning something else right away?"

Maggie poured all this out and then felt immense relief. At last she
was honest again; at last she had said what she felt, and they knew it
and could never say that she hadn't been fair with them. She felt that
her speech had cleared the air in every kind of way. She waited for her
aunt's reply. No sound came from the bed. Had her aunt heard? Perhaps
she slept. Maggie waited. Then timidly, and softly she said:

"Aunt Anne ... Aunt Anne ..."

No reply. Then again in a whisper:

"Aunt Anne ... Aunt Anne ..."

Supposing Aunt Anne ... Maggie trembled, then, commanding herself to be
calm, she bent towards the bed.

"Aunt Anne, are you asleep?"

Suddenly Aunt Anne's face was there, the eyes closed, the mouth, the
cheeks pale yellow in the faint reflection from the lamp. There was no
stir, no breath.

"Aunt Anne, Aunt Anne," Maggie whispered in terror now. Then she saw
that her aunt was sleeping; very, very faintly the sheets rose and fell
and the fingers of the hand on the coverlet trembled a little as though
they were struggling to wake.

Then Aunt Anne had heard nothing after all. But it might be that she
was pretending, just to see what Maggie would say.

"Aunt Anne," whispered Maggie once more and for the last time. Then she
sat back on her seat again, her hands folded, staring straight in front
of her. After that she did not know for how long she sat there in a
state somewhere between dream and reality. The room, although it never
lost its familiarity, grew uncouthly strange; shapes grey and dim
seemed to move beneath the windows, humping their backs, spinning out
into long limbs, hands and legs and gigantic fingers. The deadest hour
of the night was come; the outside world seemed to press upon the
house, the whole world cold, thick, damp, life