n spite of their lack of meaning. Francis hated her; he thought
she was a bad girl, who never kept her word. And she wasn't.

"I--I want to be good," she said aimlessly, as she had said to
Pennington a little earlier. "I"--she lost the thread again--"I'll go."

She rose, dropping the cup and saucer on her knee, and not stopping to
pick them up. She caught hold of the doorpost to carry her in, and
dropped down on a seat inside. It was not that she was weak, but she
felt giddy. She wondered again if it was the swamp. Probably. She
finally made her way back to her own room, mixed herself some spirits
of ammonia and took it, and sat down to pull herself together. Through
the wooden partition she could hear the furious voices of the men on
the porch outside. She wondered if Francis would say more dreadful
things to her while he took her over in the side-car. She hoped not.

Presently the dizziness departed for a few minutes, and she tried to
pack. She did not seem able to manage it. If she was allowed to stay
at the Lodge with the O'Maras, she could send Peggy over to gather up
her things. Yes, that would be the best way to do.

She pinned on her hat and drew her cloak around her, just as she was,
and came out. Pennington and Francis were standing up, facing her, and
having a quarrel which might last some time.

"I'm ready," she said weakly.

She knew she should have stood up there, and told Francis how unkind
and unjust and bad-tempered and jealous he was, and defend herself from
his accusations. But she was too tired to do it; and besides, words
seemed so far away, and feelings seemed far away, too. Francis and the
work at the cabin and Pennington, with his kind, plump, rueful face,
and even the O'Maras and Logan, seemed suddenly unreal and of little
account. The only thing that really mattered was a chance to go
somewhere and lie down and sleep. Perhaps she could lean back a little
in the side-car as he took her over.

Francis broke off short in what he was saying, and went without looking
at her toward the place where he kept his motor-cycle. Perhaps he
thought that it did not matter, now, whether he left her with
Pennington or not.

Pennington, for his part, turned around--he had been standing so that
his back was toward her--and began to speak. Marjorie thought he was
saying something to the effect that he was very sorry that he had made
this trouble for her, and that he had been trying to