added this strange woman, "the child likes to be alone, an' sometimes I
lets 'im slip away there--when he's good, or the Doctor's been extra
'ard with 'im."

"Beats 'im?" asked Tilda, and suddenly, still erect on her chair and
looking down on the woman, felt her courage flowing back full and
strong. "He's a beast, then."

"You musn' talk like that," said the woman hurriedly, with a glance back
at the half-open door. "Hut he's 'ard if you cross 'im--an' the child's
pay bein' be'ind--'and--"

"What's your name?" demanded Tilda.

"Sarah 'Uggins."

"Miss or Missis?"

"What's that to you?"

The blood surged into the woman's face, and she eyed the child
suspiciously under lowered brows. Tilda slipped down from her chair.
She had a sense of standing dangerously on the edge of something evil,
forbidden. If only she could scream aloud and rush out--anywhere--into
the open air!

"I--I was only wantin' to speak polite," she stammered. "I been
impident to yer. But O, Sarah 'Uggins--O, ma'am--'elp me see 'im an'
get away, an' I'll bless yer name fur ever and ever! Amen."