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 sound. She came up, knelt upon the floor, pushed Muff gently away, and took her child's head upon her lap. "Maggie!" She opened her eyes and looked up. "Mother's glad to see you, Maggie." The girl tried to smile, her face all quivering. "Mother, I--I wanted you. I thought I wasn't fit." Her mother stooped and kissed her lips,--the polluted, purple lips, that trembled so. "I thought you would come back to me, my daughter. I've watched for you a great while." She smiled at that, pushing away her falling hair. "Mother, I'm so sorry." "Yes, Maggie." "And oh!" she threw out her arms; "O, I'm so tired, I'm so tired!" Her mother raised her, laying her head upon her shoulder. "Mother'll rest you, Maggie," soothing her, as if she sang again her first lullaby, when she came to her, the little pure baby,--her only one. "Mother," once more, "the door was unlocked." "It has been unlocked every night for seven years, my child." She closed her eyes after that, some stupor creeping over her, her features in the firelight softening and melting, with the old child-look coming into them. Looking up at last, she saw another face bending over her, a face in which grief had worn stern lines; there were tears in the eyes, and some recent struggle quivering out of it. "Father, I didn't mean to come in,--I didn't really; but I was so cold. Don't send me off, father! I couldn't walk so far,--I shall be out of your way in a little while,--the cough--" "_I_ send you away, Maggie? I--I might have done it once; God forgive me! He sent you back, my daughter,--I thank him." A darkness swept over both faces then; she did not even hear Muff's whining cry at her ear. "Mother," at last, the light of the room coming back, "there's Somebody who was wounded. I guess I'm going to find him. Will he forget it all?" "All, Maggie."