opened the window to air it.

"There is a bruise on your forehead," she had said, as she was arranging
the torn hair. "You must have struck it against something when you were
ill last night."

"I struck it against the wall," Susan answered, in a monotonous voice. "I
did it on purpose. I banged my head against the wall until I fell down
and was sick."

Margery's face quivered again.

"Don't think about it," she said. "You ought not to have been alone.
Some--some friend ought to have been with you."

"I haven't got any friends," Susan answered. "I don't know why you came
up to me. I don't guess you know what's the matter with me."

"Yes, I do," said Margery. "You are in great trouble."

"It's the worst kind o' trouble a woman can get into," said Susan, the
muscles of her face beginning to be drawn again. "I don't see why--why
Jack Williams can skip off to Chicago to a new, big job that's a stroke
o' luck--an' me left lie here to bear everything--an' be picked at, an'
made fun of, an' druv mad with the way I'm kicked in the gutter. I don't
see no _right_ in it. There _ain't_ no right in it; I don't believe
there's no God anyhow; I won't never believe it again. No one can't make
me. If I've done what gives folks a right to cast me off, so's Jack
Williams."

"You haven't pretended to love a person and then run away and left them
to--to suffer," said little Margery, on the verge of sobs again.

"No, I haven't!" said the girl, her tears beginning to stream anew. "I'm
not your kind. I'm not educated. I'm only a common mill hand, but I did
love Jack Williams all I knew how. He had such a nice way with him--kind
of affectionate, an'--an' he was real good-lookin' too when he was fixed
up. If I'd been married to him, no one would have said nothin', an'--an'
'tain't nothin' but a minister readin' somethin' anyhow--marryin' ain't."

CHAPTER XVI

This was before Margery went to Boston to try to develop her gift for
making pretty sketches. Her father and mother and her brother strained
every nerve to earn and save the money to cover her expenses. She went
away full of innocent, joyous hope in the month of May. She boarded in a
plain, quiet house, and had two rooms. One was her workroom and studio.
She worked under a good-natured artist, who thought her a rather gifted
little creature and used to take her to look at any pictures that were on
exhibition. Taking into consideration her youth and limited advantages,
she