with it! Is she bad?"

"Oh, _Mamma!_ don't! don't! It is--she is--Elizabeth--"

Then she fled.

That night, at about two o'clock, Mrs. Maitland entered her
stepdaughter's room. Nannie was dozing, but started up in her
bed, her heart in her throat at the sight of the gaunt figure
standing beside her. Blair's mother had a candle in one hand, and
the other was curved about it to protect the bending flame from
the draught of the open door; the light flickered up on her face,
and Nannie was conscious of how deep the wrinkles were on her
forehead and about her mouth.

"Nannie, tell me everything."

She put the candle on the table at the head of the bed, and sat
down, leaning forward a little, as if a weight were resting on
her shoulders. Her clasped hands, hanging loosely between her
knees, seemed, in the faint light of the small, pointed flame,
curiously shrunken and withered. "Tell me," she said heavily.

Nannie told her all she knew. It was little enough.

"How do you know that Elizabeth had broken with David Richie?"
her stepmother said. Nannie silently handed her Blair's letter.
Mrs. Maitland took up her candle, and holding it close to the
flimsy sheet, read her son's statement. Then she handed it back.
"I see; some sort of a squabble; and Blair--" She stopped, almost