one instant, and then I found voice and rushed on vehemently. "What she
has told you is false; every word of it is false. I am not engaged to
Richard Vandermarck; I never thought of such a thing till I came here,
and found they talked about it. They ought to be ashamed, and I will go
away to-morrow. And what she said about my mother is a wicked lie as
well, at least in the way she meant it; and I shall hate her all my
life. I have been motherless and lonely always, but God has cared for
me, and I never knew before what evil thoughts and ways there were. I
am not ashamed that I listened, though I didn't mean to stay at first.
I'm glad I heard it all and know what kind of friends I have. And those
last cruel words you said--I never will forgive you, never--never--never
till I die."

He had put his hand out toward me as if in conciliation, at least I
understood it so. I pushed it passionately away, rushed into my room,
bolted the door, and flung myself upon the bed with a frightful burst of
sobs. I heard his hand upon the latch of the door, and he said my name
several times in a low voice. Then he went slowly up the stairs. And I
think his room must have been directly over mine, for, for hours I heard
some one walking there; indeed, it was the last sound I heard, when,
having cried all my tears and vowed all my vows, I fell asleep and
forgot that I was wretched.



CHAPTER VIII.

SUNDAY.

_La notte é madre di pensieri_.