“Yes, indeed,” said Mabella heartily. “Good-bye, Ann,” and stooping she kissed the girl and went out and down the path. Ann stood gazing after her.
“She kissed me,” she said dully, then in an echo-like voice repeated “kissed me.”
The old clock ticked loudly, the kettle sang on the fire, the baby fell over with a soft thud upon the floor. Ann sat down beside him, and clasping him to her breast cried bitterly to herself, and as has been often the case, the mother’s sobs lullabyed the child to a soft and peaceful sleep. She rose, with the art which comes with even unblessed motherhood, without waking the child, and laid him down gently.
“I know she won’t send a pattering with a yoke,” she said in the tone of one who warns herself against hoping too much.
Meanwhile Mabella sped after Vashti; she overtook her in about a mile.
“Goodness, Vashti,” said Mabella; “I’m sure you need not have hurried so! I’m all out of breath catching up.”
“Well, I couldn’t stand it any longer,” said Vashti.
“Stand what?” demanded Mabella, a little irritated by Vashti’s ponderosity of manner.
“That exhibition,” said Vashti with a gesture to the forlorn house, which somehow looked pitiably naked and unsheltered. “It was disgusting! To go about petting people like that is putting a premium upon vice.”
“You dear old Vashti,” she said, “you said that as if you had been the preacher himself—what the world could I say to her? standing there with that poor child.” A sudden break interrupted her speech. “Oh, Vashti,” she said, “isn’t it terrible? Think of that baby; what a difference between it and Dorothy! And so poor—so very poor; without even a name; Vashti—you’re a lot cleverer than me; you don’t think, do you, that they will be judged alike? You don’t think there will be one rule for all? There will be allowances made, won’t there?”
“I wonder at you, Mabella,” said Vashti, “putting yourself in a state over that girl and her brat! It’s easy seeing you’ve precious little to trouble you or you’d never carry on about Ann Serrup; a bad lot the Serrups are, root and branch; bad they are and bad they’ll be. The Ethiopian don’t change his spots! and as for crying and carrying on about her! take care, Mabella, that you are not sent something to cry for—take care.” The last ominous words uttered in Vashti’s full rich voice made Mabella tremble. Ah—she knew and _Vashti knew_ how great cause she already had to weep.