y knew. God help
me!" She sank to the bed, her face in her hands. "I believe I'm going
mad!"

"Mollie--Mollie Babcock! You mustn't talk so--you mustn't!" The
seconds ticked away. Save for the quick catch of suppressed sobs, not
a sound was heard in the mean, austere little room; not an echo
penetrated from the outside world.

Then suddenly the brown head lifted from the pillow, and Mollie faced
almost fiercely about.

"You think I am--am mad already." Then, feverishly: "Don't you?"

Helpless at a crisis, Annie Warren could only stand silent, the pink,
childish under-lip held tight between her teeth to prevent a quiver.
Her fingers played nervously with the filmy lace shawl about her
shoulders.

Mollie advanced a step. "Don't you?"

Annie found her voice.

"No, no, no! Oh, Mollie, no, of course not! You--Mollie--" Instinct
all at once came to her rescue. With a sudden movement she gathered
the woman in her arms, her tender heart quivering in her voice and
glistening in her eyes. "Mollie, I can't bear to have you so! I love
you, Mollie. Tell me what it is--me--your friend, Annie."

Mollie's lips worked without speech, and Annie became insistent.

"Tell me, Mollie. Let me share the ache at your heart. I love you!"

Here was the crushing straw to one very, very heartsick and very
weary. For the first time in her solitary life, Mollie Babcock threw
reticence to the winds, and admitted another human being into the
secret places of her confidence.

"If you don't think me already mad, you will before I'm through." Like
a caged wild thing that can not be still, she was once more on her
feet, vibrating back and forth like a shuttle. "I'm afraid of myself
at times, afraid of the future. It's like the garret used to be after
dark, when we were children: it holds only horrors.

"Child, child!" She paused, her arms folded across her breast, her
throat a-throb. "You can't understand--thank God, you never will
understand--what the future holds for me. You are going back home;
back to your own people, your own life. You've been here but a few
months. To you it has been a lark, an outing, an experience. In a few
short weeks it will be but a memory, stowed away in its own niche, the
pleasant features alone remaining vivid.

"Even, while here, you've never known the life itself. You've had
Jack, the novelty of a strange environment, your anticipation of sure
release. You are merely like a sightseer, locked for a minute in