thinking of her friends far away, and asking to be taken home--home,
where her mother was sleeping under the sod--home, to be loved and
kissed again before she died. And I would have loved her if I hadn't
hated you so much that there wasn't room for the love of any living
creature in my bad heart. I used to sit all night and hear her
talk--talk in her dreams and in her fever--as if there were kind people
listening to her, people that were kind to her long ago. And the room
seemed full of angels sometimes, so that I was afraid to move and look
about; for I could swear I heard the fanning of their wings and the
rustle of their feet upon the carpet. Sometimes I saw big round tears
upon her wasted cheeks, and I wouldn't brush them away, for they looked
like jewels that the angels had dropped there. And then I tried to cry
myself, but, ha! ha! I had to laugh instead, although my heart was
bursting. I wished I could have cried; I'm sure it would have made my
heart so light, and perhaps it would have burst that ring of hot iron
that was pressing so hard around my head. It's there now, sinking and
burning right against my temples. But I can't cry, I haven't since I was
a little girl, long ago, long ago; but I think I cried when mother died,
long ago, long ago."

She was speaking in a kind of dreamy murmur, while Philip paced the
room; and finally she sank down upon the floor, and sat there with her
hands pressed against her brows, rocking herself to and fro.

"Moll," said Philip, stooping over her, and speaking in a gentle tone,
"I'm sorry I struck you, indeed I am; but I was drunk, and when you cut
me, I didn't know what I was about. Now let's be friends, there's a
good girl. You must go back to Washington, you know, and to New York,
and stay there till I come back. Won't you, now, Moll?"