sent her to see if they were in the studio.

"Yes, tell her we are, please; we fell asleep on the couch, please;
and, Norah! we want our breakfast here. We are very--busy, and we can't
be disturbed."

She twisted her hair into a loose knot, and cowered over the hearth,
where she kindled some pieces of lightwood, and then sat huddled before
it, watching the murky roll of its flames, till the maid came back with
the tray. Charmian wished to bring Cornelia a cup of coffee where she
still lay, so crushed with the despair that had rolled back upon her
with the first consciousness that she thought she never could rise
again. But as the aroma of the coffee that Charmian poured out stole to
her, she found strength to lift herself on her elbow, and say, "No, I
will take it there with you."

The maid had put the tray on the low table where Charmian usually
served tea, but in spite of all the poignant associations of this piece
of furniture with happier times, the two girls ate hungrily of the
omelette and the Vienna rolls; and by the time the maid had put the
studio in order, and beaten up the cushions of the couch into their
formal shape, they had cleared the tray, and she took it away with her
quite empty. Even in the house of mourning, and perhaps there more than
elsewhere, the cravings of the animal, which hungers and thirsts on,
whatever happens, satisfy themselves, while the spirit faints and
despairs.

Perhaps if Cornelia had thought of it she would not have chosen to
starve to no visible end, but she did not think, and she ate ravenously
as long as there was anything left, and when she had eaten, she felt so
much stronger in heart and clearer in mind, that after the maid had
gone she began, "Charmian, I am going home, at once, and you mustn't
try to stop me; I mean to Mrs. Montgomery's. I want to write to Mr.
Ludlow. I shall tell him it is all true."

"Cornelia!"

"Yes; what else could I tell him?"

"Oh, you must! But must you write it?"

"Yes; I never can see him again, and I won't let him think that I want
to, or to have him forgive me. He was to blame, but I was the most, for
he might have thought it was just some little thing, and I knew what it
was, and that it was something he ought to know at once. He will always
believe now that it was worse than it is, if anything can be worse. I
shall tell him that after I had seen Mr. Dickerson again, and knew just
what a--a dreadful thing he was, I tolerated him, an