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was in the dark, before dawn of a December morning, that Marden Sebright woke. Some vague stirring below had called him out of troubled sleep to a still more troubled waking. For an instant he lay staring at the faint blur of the window, aware only of that and of a world of unhappiness. Then he remembered. It was the last morning at home. His mother was up and about. He rose, ashamed, groped round in the dark, broke the ice in the tin basin on the stand, dashed the cold water over his hands, face, and head, fumbled into his clothes, and felt his way slowly down the narrow stairs that led between lath walls from the loft rooms to the kitchen. "Good-morning, dear," said his mother's voice, as the door shut clinking behind him.

The room was lighted by one kerosene