They'd rather we'd die when we get ill. It's a bad thing for the
house." She could only speak in gasps.
"And what have you had?" Ideala asked.
"The scarlet fever, ma'am. There's an awful bad kind about, and I
caught it. They all die that gets it."
Ideala drew her closer, and laid her own cool cheek on her damp
forehead.
"Tell me why you wished to see me," she said. "You are so good," the
girl answered--"I thought you'd better know--and get--away from--that
low brute." Ideala understood, and would fain have stopped the story,
but it seemed a relief to the girl to speak, and so she listened. It
was the old story, the old story aggravated by every incident that
could make it more repulsive--and her husband was the hero of it.
"Shall I go to hell?" the girl asked, shrinking closer.
"For these Christ died," Ideala murmured. The words flashed through her
mind, and the meaning of them was new to her. Her heart was wrung for
the desolate girl, dying alone in sin and sorrow without a creature to
care for her--dying alone in the arms of a strange woman, with a
policeman outside guarding her.
Pages:
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190