He acceded and went with her into the house. "Mother!" Marjorie called.
Gregg stood just inside the door gazing at her under the hall light which showed him pitilessly the change in this Marjorie from her who, a little time ago, kissed her father fondly here when he started "to St. Louis" and who so gaily and lightly set out between Bill and himself for the Lovells' dance. Her face was thinner; no doubt of it; her skin paler; she needed now a lipstick but she had not used one. Not beautiful as that other Marjorie, this girl; yet Gregg, even if he could have had that other girl back, would not have exchanged her for this Marjorie with strange, constant tension at the corners of her mouth, with her blue eyes bigger and brighter with unceasing, nervous excitement.
Her mother came down, and how little was she changed; emerging from her husband's room, she was calm and composed as ever; over her dress she wore an apron,—a perfectly fitted, linen apron with a tiny red cross embroidered in silk, undoubtedly one of the aprons she wore when managing a room of women rolling bandages during the war. It was the chief sign by which she showed that something had happened; but on sight of Marjorie, she stirred to uneasiness about her daughter and she was almost demonstrative in her greeting of Gregg.
"I'm very glad you came to-night, especially since Billy is not here," she said, giving her cool, formal hand. "Mr. Hale is very much better; he really has been in no danger for several days; but I am beginning to be worried over Marjorie. I've never seen a child feel a parent's illness so; of course she adores her father and the sudden discovery of his serious condition was an unusual shock. But now she should realize
