shrinking away, caught her in her arms.

"You are a little darling," said she, "and I am not a bit afraid of
your temper." She hesitated a moment, looking at the child's averted
face, and coloring. "My dear, has your father told you?" she
whispered; then, "I didn't know he had."

"No, ma'am, he hasn't," said Maria. She fairly pulled herself loose
from Miss Slome and ran out of the room. Her eyes were almost blinded
with tears; she could scarcely see Wollaston Lee on the road, ahead
of her, also running. He seemed to waver as he ran. Maria called out
faintly. He evidently heard, for he slackened his pace a little; then
he ran faster than ever. Maria called again. This time the boy
stopped until the girl came up. He picked a piece of grass, as he
waited, and began chewing it.

"How do you know that isn't poison?" said Maria, breathlessly.

"Don't care if it is; hope it is," said the boy.

"It's wicked to talk so."

"Let it be wicked then."

"I don't see how I am to blame for any of it," Maria said, in a
bewildered sort of way. It was the cry of the woman, the primitive
cry of the primitive scape-goat of Creation. Already Maria began to
feel the necessity of fitting her little shoulders to the blame of
life, which she had inherited from her Mother Eve, but she was as yet
bewildered by the necessity.