him, and he spoke to me. I sat and watched him as he went away down a long grove of trees: and at every step he took, I cursed him soul and body."
"He will thrive in spite of that," returned the daughter disdainfully.
"Aye, he is thriving," said the mother.
She held her peace; for the face and form before her were unshaped by rage. It seemed as if the bosom would burst with the emotions that strove within it. The effort that constrained and held it pent up, was no less formidable than the rage itself: no less bespeaking the violent and dangerous character of the woman who made it. But it succeeded, and she asked, after a silence:
"Is he married?"
"No, deary," said the mother.
"Going to be?"
"Not that I know of, deary. But his master and friend is married. Oh, we may give him joy! We may give 'em all joy!" cried the old woman, hugging herself with her lean arms in her exultation. "Nothing but joy to us will come of that marriage. Mind me!"
The daughter looked at her for an explanation.
"But you are wet and tired; hungry and thirsty," said the old woman, hobbling to the cupboard; "and there’s little here, and little"—diving down into her pocket, and jingling a few half—pence on the table—"little here. Have you any money, Alice, deary?"
The covetous, sharp, eager face, with which she asked the question and looked on, as her daughter took out of her bosom the little gift she had so lately received, told almost as much of the history of this parent and child as the child herself had told in words.
"Is that all?" said the mother.
"I have no more. I should not have this, but for charity."
"But for charity, eh, deary?" said the old woman, bending greedily over the table to look at the money, which she appeared distrustful of her daughter’s still retaining in her hand, and gazing on. "Humph! six and six is twelve, and six eighteen—so—we must make the most of it. I’ll go buy something to eat and drink."
With greater alacrity than might have been expected in one of her appearance—for age and misery seemed to have made her as decrepit as ugly—she began to occupy her trembling hands in tying an old bonnet on her head, and folding a torn shawl about herself: still eyeing the money in her daughter’s hand, with the same sharp desire.
"What joy is to come to us of this marriage, mother?" asked the daughter. "You have not told me that."
"The joy," she replied, attiring herself, with fumbling fingers, "of no love at all, and much pride and hate, my deary. The joy of confusion and strife among 'em, proud as they are, and of danger—danger, Alice!"
"What danger?"
"I have seen what I have seen. I know what I know!" chuckled the mother. "Let some look to it. Let some be upon their guard. My gal may keep good company yet!"
Then, seeing that in the wondering earnestness with which her
