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Rh "Ain't you comin' to your supper, Mary?"

"Yes, mother."

But she did not come. She still sat with her face against the window, staring into the night.

Again the old woman called to her, impatiently.

"Why don't you come? Your supper's gittin' cold."

"I'm coming, mother."

Still she did not come.

What was it in the darkness, in the sweet twilight beyond the darkness, in the red glory of some forbidden morning, that drew and held her eyes of clay?