her ...
She was at the bottom of a deep well, and she would never get out, she
would never get out ...

The door slowly, very softly opened, and old Martha looked in.

"She's been very bad," whispered Maggie.

"Ay, I heard something. That's why I came. You gave her the drops?"

"Yes."

"She'll sleep a bit now. I'll take your place, Miss Maggie. It's time
you went back to your bed."

Maggie crept away.

She came down to breakfast to find the house bathed in sunlight and the
parrot singing hoarsely "And her golden hair was hanging down her
back." Aunt Elizabeth was there, cheerful and almost merry in her
bird-like fashion. The world was normal, ghosts out of fashion, and
this morning was the day on which the silver was cleaned. This last was
Maggie's business, and very badly she did it, never being "thorough,"
and having a fatal habit of thinking of other things. Porridge, eggs
and bacon, marmalade--

"And--her golden hair was hanging--" croaked Edward.

"Your aunt won't come down this morning, Maggie. She's much better. The
sun's shining. A little walk will be a good thing. I'll buy the calico
that Anne talked about. Your aunt's better."

Maggie felt ashamed of herself. What desperate silly feelings had she
allowed last night? How much she had made of that service, and how weak
she was to give way so easily!

"I'll clean the silver," she thought. "I'll do it better than
ever"--but unfortunately she had a hole in her stocking, and Aunt
Elizabeth, like a sparrow who has found a worm, told her about it.

"Mr. Crashaw's coming to tea this afternoon," she concluded.

"That's why Anne's staying in bed--to be well enough." The stocking and
Mr. Crashaw dimmed a little of the morning's radiance, but behind them
was the thought, "Martin must come to-day. It was like a message his
look last night." She even sang to herself as she scrubbed at the
silver.

They spent a domestic morning. Aunt Elizabeth did not go for her walk,
but instead stayed in the dining-room and, seated at the end of the
long dining-table, her head just appearing above the worn and soiled
green table-cloth, tried to discipline the week's household accounts.
She worked sucking one finger after another and poking her pencil into
her ears.

"One pound, three shillings--ham, ham, ham--?"

At one moment she invited the cook to assist her, and that lady,
crimson from the kitchen fire, bared arms akimbo, stated that she was
not only the most econ