rned to that dead, pitiless sky,
without one look into her mother's face, without one kiss, or gentle
touch, or blessing, and die so, looking up! No one to hold her hand and
look into her eyes, and hear her say she was sorry,--sorry for it all!
That they should find her there in the morning, when her poor, dead face
could not see if she were forgiven!

"I should like to go in," sobbing, with the first tears of many years
upon her cheek,--weak, pitiful tears, like a child's,--"just in out of
the cold!"

Some sudden strength fell on her after that. She reached up, fumbling
for the latch. It opened at her first touch; the door swung wide into
the silent house.

She crawled in then, into the kitchen where the fire was, and the
rocking-chair; the plants in the window, and the faded cricket upon the
hearth; the dog, too, roused from his nap behind the stove. He began to
growl at her, his eyes on fire.

"Muff!" she smiled weakly, stretching out her hand. He did not know
her,--he was fierce with strangers. "Muff! don't you know me? I'm
Maggie; there, there, Muff, good fellow!"

She crept up to him fearlessly, putting both her arms about his neck,
in a way she had of soothing him when she was his playfellow. The
creature's low growl died away. He submitted to her touch, doubtfully at
first, then he crouched on the floor beside her, wagging his tail,
wetting her face with his huge tongue.

"Muff, _you_ know me, you old fellow! I'm sorry, Muff, I am,--I wish we
could go out and play together again. I'm very tired, Muff."

She laid her head upon the dog, just as she used to long ago, creeping
up near the fire. A smile broke all over her face, at Muff's short,
happy bark.

"_He_ don't turn me off; he don't know; he thinks I'm nobody but
Maggie."

How long she lay so, she did not know. It might have been minutes, it
might have been hours; her eyes wandering all about the room, growing
brighter too, and clearer. They would know now that she had come back;
that she wanted to see them; that she had crawled into the old room to
die; that Muff had not forgotten her. Perhaps, _perhaps_ they would look
at her not unkindly, and cry over her just a little, for the sake of the
child they used to love.

Martha Ryck, coming in at last, found her with her long hair falling
over her face, her arms still about the dog, lying there in the
firelight.

The woman's eyelids fluttered for an instant, her lips moving dryly; but
she made no