“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 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.