It was a very white, haggard face which looked at her from the mirror, and the eyes almost frightened her with their expression. About her mouth and on the front of her dress were spots of blood which had dropped from her nose while she was unconscious, and which added to her unnatural appearance. The stains upon her face she washed away; and exchanging her dressing-gown for a fresh one, crept into bed, for she was very cold and dizzy and faint, while, in spite of the wild excitement under which she was laboring, there was stealing over her a heavy stupor which she could not throw off, and when at the usual hour Pierre came to make her fire, he found her sleeping so soundly that he went softly out and left her alone. An hour later, Margery looked in, but Queenie was still asleep, nor did she waken when, as cautiously as possible, a fire was kindled in the grate to make the room more comfortable, for the morning was bitterly cold, and the frost lay thickly upon the windows. Margery could not see Queenie’s face, as it was turned toward the wall, and so she had no suspicion of the frightful storm which had swept over the young girl during the night. The letters still lay upon the table, and Margery saw them there, but did not touch them or dream what they contained, and after putting the room a little to rights she went quietly out, leaving her friend to sleep until the clock struck ten. Then, with a start, Queenie awoke, and opening her eyes, looked about her with that vague sense of misery and pain we have all felt at some period of our lives, when the first thought on waking was, “Why is it I feel so badly?” To Queenie it came very soon why she felt so badly, and with a moan she hid her face in her pillow, while something like a cry escaped her as she whispered: “I thought him so good and true, and now I know him to have been so bad. He was false to mother, false to Christine, and doubly false to Margery, whom he repudiated and disowned. Why did he not bring her home like a man when I first told him of her? Why did he not say to me, ‘Queenie, I have done a great wrong which many people in this country think of no consequence, but which, nevertheless, is a sin, for which I am sorry and would make amends. Little Margery La Rue is your sister, and I wish to bring her home to live with you and share equally with you as if no cloud hung over her birth. Will you let her come, Queenie?’ Oh, if he had done this I should have taken her so gladly, and been spared all this pain. Oh, father, father, you have dealt most cruelly with both your children, Margery and me!” Queenie had risen by this time and was making her toilet, for she meant to appear as natural as possible to Mrs. La Rue and Margery until the moment came for her to speak and know every particular of her sister’s birth. While she was dressing Margery came to the door, but it was locked, and Queenie called to her: