"I think I ought to tell you, Aunt Anne, that I wrote a letter some days ago and posted it myself.It was to a lady who knew Father once in Glebeshire, and she said that if ever I wanted help I was to write to her, and so--although perhaps I oughtn't to have done it without asking you first, still I was afraid you mightn't want me to--so I sent it.I wouldn't like to hurt your feelings, Aunt Anne, and it isn't that I'm not happy with you and Aunt Elizabeth, but Iought to be earning my own living, oughtn't I? And I've only got my three hundred pounds, haven't I? I'm not complaining, but I don't know about anything yet, do I? I can't even find my way when I'm out with Aunt Elizabeth.And I'm afraid I'll never be really good enough to be religious.Perhaps if Father'd wanted me to be I might be now, but he never cared...I hope you won't be angry, Aunt Anne, but Ididn't like to-night--I didn't really.When I was there I thought that soon I'd begin to cry like the others, but it was only because every one else was crying--not because I wanted to.I hope you won't be angry, but I'm afraid I'll never be religious as you and Aunt Elizabeth want me to be; so don't you think it will be better for me to start learning something else right away?"Maggie poured all this out and then felt immense relief.At last she was honest again; at last she had said what she felt, and they knew it and could never say that she hadn't been fair with them.She felt that her speech had cleared the air in every kind of way.She waited for her aunt's reply.No sound came from the bed.Had her aunt heard? Perhaps she slept.Maggie waited.Then timidly, and softly she said:
"Aunt Anne...Aunt Anne..."
No reply.Then again in a whisper:
"Aunt Anne...Aunt Anne..."
Supposing Aunt Anne...Maggie trembled, then, commanding herself to be calm, she bent towards the bed.
"Aunt Anne, are you asleep?"
Suddenly Aunt Anne's face was there, the eyes closed, the mouth, the cheeks pale yellow in the faint reflection from the lamp.There was no stir, no breath.