The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support
of the door-post.

"I knew that she was dead," said she, deep and low, and then was
silent for an instant. "My tears that should have flowed for her
were burnt up long years ago. Young man, tell me about her."

"Not yet," said I, having a strange power given me of confronting
one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.

"You had once a little dog," I continued. The words called out in
her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter's
death. She broke in upon my speech:-

"I had! It was hers--the last thing I had of hers--and it was shot
for wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog
rues it to this day. For that dumb beast's blood, his best-beloved
stands accursed."

Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of
her curse. Again I spoke:-

"O, woman!" I said, "that best-beloved, standing accursed before men,
is your dead daughter's child."

The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which
she pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without
another question or word, she threw herself on the ground with
fearful vehemence, and clutched at the innocent daisies with
convulsed hands.