as an _awful_ dream this time. Can't I get into
bed with you?"

"Why yes, come along, you silly child."

The fumbling approach to the bed, the sheets held open, the kind old
hand outstretched, and then the haven . . . her head on the same pillow
with that of the brave old woman who was afraid of nothing, who drew her
up close and safe and with comforting assurance instantly fell asleep
again. And then the delicious, slow fading of the terrors before the
obliterating hand of sleep, the delicious slow sinking into
forgetfulness of everything.

* * * * *

Standing there, clad in the splendor of her physical maturity, Marise
shivered uncontrollably again, and quaked and feared. It was all a bad
dream, all of it, and now as then Cousin Hetty lay safe and quiet,
wrapped in sleep which was the only escape. Marise turned sick with
longing to go again, now, to seek out Cousin Hetty and to lie down by
her to share that safe and cold and dreamless quiet.

She flung back over her shoulder the long shining dark braid which her
fingers had been automatically twisting, and stood for a moment
motionless. She was suffering acutely, but the pain came from a source
so deep, so confused, so inarticulate, that she could not name it, could
not bring to bear on it any of the resources of her intelligence and
will. She could only bend under it as under a crushing burden, and
suffer as an animal endures pain, dumbly, stupidly.

After a time a small knock sounded, and Agnes's voice asked through the
door if Miss Marise thought the door to . . . to . . . if the "other" door
ought to be open or shut. It was shut now. What did people do as a
general thing?

Marise opened her own door and looked down on the old figure in the
straight, yellowed night-gown, the knotted, big-veined hand shielding
the candle from the wandering summer breeze which blew an occasional
silent, fragrant breath in from the open windows.

"I don't know what people do as a rule," she answered, and then asked,
"How did Miss Hetty like best to have it, herself?"

"Oh, open, always."

"We'd better open it, then."

The old servant swayed before the closed door, the candlestick shaking
in her hand. She looked up at Marise timidly. "You do it," she said
under her breath.

Marise felt a faint pitying scorn, stepped past Agnes, lifted the latch,
and opened the door wide into the blackness of the other room.

The dense silence seemed to co