CHAPTER III.
The morning, when it came long after, came quiet and cool,--the warm red dawn helplessly smothered under great waves of gray cloud.
Margret, looking out into the thick fog, lay down wearily again, closing her eyes.

What was the day to her?
Very slowly the night was driven back.

An hour after, when she lifted her head again, the stars were still glittering through the foggy arch, like sparks of brassy blue, and hills and valleys were one drifting, slow-heaving mass of ashy damp.

Off in the east a stifled red film groped through.

It was another day coming; she might as well get up, and live the rest of her life out;--what else had she to do?
Whatever this night had been to the girl, it left one thought sharp, alive, in the exhausted quiet of her brain: a cowardly dread of the trial of the day, when she would see him again.