"Who are you?" said Flower, at last. "Are you a ghost, or are you the daughter of the dreadful woman who lives in this hut? See! I had a long sleep. She put me to sleep, I know she did; and while I was asleep she stole my purse and rings, and my hat and shoes. But that's nothing, that's nothing at all. While I was asleep, baby here died. I know she's quite dead, she has not stirred nor moved for hours, at least it seems like hours. What are you staring at me in that rude way for, girl? I'm quite sure the baby, Polly's little sister, is dead." Nobody could speak in a more utterly apathetic way than Flower. Her voice neither rose nor fell. She poured out her dreary words in a wailing monotone. "I know that it's my fault," she added; "Polly's little sister has died because of me." She still held her hand over the white bundle. "I'm terrified, but not of you," she added; "you may be a ghost, stealing in here in the dark; or you may be the daughter of that dreadful woman. But whoever you are, it's all alike to me. I got into one of my passions. I promised my mother when she died that I'd never get into another, but I did, I got into one to-day. I was angry with Polly Maybright; I stole her little sister away, and now she's dead. I am so terrified at what I have done that I never can be afraid of anything else. You need not stare so at me, girl; whoever you are I'm not afraid of you." Maggie had now found an old bottle to stick her candle into. "I am Miss Polly's little kitchen-maid, Maggie Ricketts," she replied. "I ain't a ghost, and I haven't nothing to say to the wife of Micah Jones. As to the baby, let me look at it. You're a very bad young lady, Miss Flower, but I has come to fetch away the baby, ef you please, so let me look at it this minute. Oh, my, how my legs do ache; that moor is heavy walking! Give me the baby, please, Miss Flower. It ain't your baby, it's Miss Polly's." "So, you're Maggie?" said Flower. There was a queer shake in her voice. "It was about you I was so angry. Yes, you may look at the baby; take it and look at it, but I don't want to see it, not if it's dead." Maggie instantly lifted the little white bundle into her arms, removed a portion of the shawl, and pressed her cheek against the cheek of the baby. The little white cheek was cold, but not deadly cold, and some faint, faint breath still came from the slightly parted lips. When Maggie had anything to do, no one could be less nervous and more practical. "The baby ain't dead at all," she explained. "She's took with a chill, and she's very bad, but she ain't dead. Mother has had heaps of babies, and I know what to do. Little Miss Pearl must have a hot bath this minute." "Oh, Maggie," said Flower. "Oh, Maggie, Maggie!" Her frozen indifference, her apathy, had departed. She rose from her recumbent position, pushed back her hair and stood beside the other young girl, with eyes that glowed, and yet brimmed over with tears.