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“Yes, I’m quite ready.”

“You haven’t the slightest idea what it is? You couldn’t even guess?”

“No, I couldn’t even guess.”

“I’ll tell you, then.” The plump Annie was bubbling like a child before a well-filled Christmas stocking. “It’s Jack: he’s coming this very day. A big, fierce Indian brought the letter this morning.” She sat down tailor fashion on the end of the bunk. “He nearly ate up Susie–Jack christened her Susie because she’s a Sioux–because she wouldn’t let him put the letter right into my own hand. That’s why I’m up so early.”

She looked slyly at the woman on the bed.

“Who do you suppose is coming with him?” she asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” in a tone of not caring, either.

“Guess, Mollie!”

“Steve?”

“Of course–Steve. You knew all the time, only you wouldn’t admit it. Oh, I’m so glad! I want to hug some one. Isn’t it fine?”

“Yes, fine indeed. But you don’t mean that you want to hug Steve?”

“No, goose. You know I meant Jack; but I–” She regarded her friend doubtfully. But Mollie Babcock was dressing rapidly, and her face was averted.

“And Mollie, I didn’t tell you all–almost the best. We’re going home, Jack says; going right away; this very week, maybe.”

For a moment the dressing halted. “I am very glad–for you,” said Mollie, in an even voice.

“Glad, for me!” mimickingly, baitingly. “Mollie Babcock, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were envious.”

Mollie said nothing.

“Or weren’t glad your husband is coming.”

Still no word.

“Or–or–Mollie, what have I done?” Annie cried in dismay. “Don’t cry so; I was only joking. Of course you know that I didn’t mean that you envied our good luck, or that you wouldn’t be crazy to see Steve.”

“But it’s so. God help me, it’s so!”

“Mollie!” Mrs. Warren was aghast. “Forgive me! I’m ashamed of myself!”

“There’s nothing to forgive; it’s so.”

“Please don’t.” The two were very close, very tense, but not touching. “Don’t say any more. I didn’t hear–“

“You did hear. And you suspected, or you wouldn’t have suggested!”

“Mollie, I never dreamed. I–“

Of a sudden the older woman faced about. Seizing the other by the shoulders, she held her prisoner. She fixed the frightened woman’s eyes with a stern look.

“Will you swear that you never knew–that it was mere chance–what you said?”

“Yes.”

“You swear you didn’t?”–the grip tightened–“you swear it?”

“I swear–oh, you’re hurting me!”

Mollie Babcock let her hands drop.

“I believe you”–wearily. “It seemed that everybody knew. God help me!” She sank to the bed, her face in her hands. “I believe I’m going mad!”

“Mollie–Mollie Babcock! You mustn’t talk so–you mustn’t!” The seconds ticked away. Save for the quick catch of suppressed sobs, not a sound was heard in the mean, austere little room; not an echo penetrated from the outside world.

Then suddenly the brown head lifted from the pillow, and Mollie faced almost fiercely about.

“You think I am–am mad already.” Then, feverishly: “Don’t you?”

Helpless at a crisis, Annie Warren could only stand silent, the pink, childish under-lip held tight between her teeth to prevent a quiver. Her fingers played nervously with the filmy lace shawl about her shoulders.

Mollie advanced a step. “Don’t you?”

Annie found her voice.

“No, no, no! Oh, Mollie, no, of course not! You–Mollie–” Instinct all at once came to her rescue. With a sudden movement she gathered the woman in her arms, her tender heart quivering in her voice and glistening in her eyes. “Mollie, I can’t bear to have you so! I love you, Mollie. Tell me what it is–me–your friend, Annie.”

Mollie’s lips worked without speech, and Annie became insistent.

“Tell me, Mollie. Let me share the ache at your heart. I love you!”

Here was the crushing straw to one very, very heartsick and very weary. For the first time in her solitary life, Mollie Babcock threw reticence to the winds, and admitted another human being into the secret places of her confidence.

“If you don’t think me already mad, you will before I’m through.” Like a caged wild thing that can not be still, she was once more on her feet, vibrating back and forth like a shuttle. “I’m afraid of myself at times, afraid of the future. It’s like the garret used to be after dark, when we were children: it holds only horrors.