The vehement manner of the entreaty, the earnest expression of the face, the trembling of the two hands that were raised imploringly, a certain dread and terror in the voice akin to her own condition at the moment, prevailed with Harriet. She hastened to the door and opened it.
"May I come in, or shall I speak here?" said the woman, catching at her hand.
"What is it that you want? What is it that you have to say?"
"Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never say it. I am tempted now to go away. There seem to be hands dragging me from the door. Let me come in, if you can trust me for this once!"
Her energy again prevailed, and they passed into the fire-light of the little kitchen, where she had before sat, and ate, and dried her clothes.
"Sit there," said Alice, kneeling down beside her, "and look at me. You remember me?"
"I do."
"You remember what I told you I had been, and where I came from, ragged and lame, with the fierce wind and weather beating on my head?"
"Yes."
"You know how I came back that night, and threw your money in the dirt, and you and your race. Now, see me here, upon my knees. Am I less earnest now, than I was then?"
"If what you ask,’ said Harriet, gently, "is forgiveness—"
"But it’s not!" returned the other, with a proud, fierce look "What I ask is to be believed. Now you shall judge if I am worthy of belief, both as I was, and as I am."
Still upon her knees, and with her eyes upon the fire, and the fire shining on her ruined beauty and her wild black hair, one long tress of which she pulled over her shoulder, and wound about her hand, and thoughtfully bit and tore while speaking, she went on:
"When I was young and pretty, and this," plucking contemptuously at the hair she held, "was only handled delicately, and couldn’t be admired enough, my mother, who had not been very mindful of me as a child, found out my merits, and was fond of me, and proud of me. She was covetous and poor, and thought to make a sort of property of me. No great lady ever thought that of a daughter yet, I’m sure, or acted as if she did—it’s never done, we all know—and that shows that the only instances of mothers bringing up their daughters wrong, and evil coming of it, are among such miserable folks as us."
Looking at the fire, as if she were forgetful, for the moment, of having any auditor, she continued in a dreamy way, as she wound the long tress of hair tight round and round her hand.
"What came of that, I needn’t say. Wretched marriages don’t come of such things, in our degree; only wretchedness and ruin. Wretchedness and ruin came on me—came on me.’"
Raising her eyes swiftly from their moody gaze upon the fire, to Harriet’s face, she said:
"I am wasting time, and there is none to spare; yet if I hadn’t thought of all, I shouldn’t be here now. Wretchedness and ruin came on me, I
