"You have read the articles," she said.

Read them! During her walk hither Cynthia had been incapable of thought,
but the epithets and arraignments and accusations, the sentences and
paragraphs, wars printed now, upon her brain, never, she believed, to be
effaced. Every step of the way she had been unconsciously repeating them.

"Have you read them?" asked Cynthia.

"Yes, my dear."

"Has everybody read them?" Did the whole world, then, know of her shame?

"I am glad you came to me, my dear," said Miss Lucretia, taking her hand.
"Have you talked of this to any one else?"

"No," said Cynthia, simply.

Miss Lucretia was puzzled. She had not looked for apathy, but she did not
know all of Cynthia's troubles. She wondered whether she had misjudged
the girl, and was misled by her attitude.

"Cynthia," she said, with a briskness meant to hide emotion for Miss
Lucretia had emotions, "I am a lonely old woman, getting too old, indeed,
to finish the task of my life. I went to see Mrs. Merrill the other day
to ask her if she would let you come and live with me. Will you?"

Cynthia shook her head.