Any one who had seen Maggie in her deep and expressionless sleep but a
few minutes before would have watched her now with a sensation of
surprise. This queer girl was showing another phase of her complex
nature. Her face was no longer lacking in expression, no longer
stricken with sorrow nor harrowed with unavailing regret. A fine fire
filled her eyes; her brow, as she pushed back her hair, showed its
rather massive proportions. Now, intellect and the triumphant delight
of overcoming a mental difficulty reigned supreme in her face. She
read on without interruption for nearly an hour. At the end of that
time her cheeks were burning like two glowing crimson roses.

A knock came at her door; she started and turned round petulantly.

"It's just my luck," muttered Maggie. "I'd have got the sense of that
whole magnificent passage in another hour. It was beginning to fill
me: I was getting satisfied-- now it's all over! I'd have had a good
night if that knock hadn't come-- but now-- now I am Maggie Oliphant,
the most miserable girl at St. Benet's, once again."

The knock was repeated. Miss Oliphant sprang to her feet.

"Come in," she said in a petulant voice.

The handle of the door was slowly turned, the tapestry curtain moved
forward and a little fair-haired girl, with an infantile expression of
face and looking years younger than her eighteen summers, tripped a
few steps into the room.

"I beg your pardon, Maggie," she said. "I had not a moment to come
sooner-- not one really. That stupid Miss Turner chose to raise the