"My mother's dead, Hester," said Bet. She could speak without effort
now, but the tears were raining down her cheeks.

"Poor lamb! Dead? Well, I thought as the blow would come. You come
home with me, Elizabeth. Maybe I'll sing something to you."

At this proposition Bet changed color.

"I'm starved for that voice of yours, Hester," she said. And then she
put her hand through her companion's arm, and they walked off at a
quiet pace together. Hester was as tall as Bet, and about ten years
her senior. She was very slender, and carried herself well; her eyes
were dark and beautiful, otherwise she had a queer, irregularly formed
face. Her jet-black hair grew low on her forehead, and when she smiled,
which she only did occasionally, she showed the gleam of very white
teeth. No one called Hester Wright handsome, but few women of her class
in Liverpool had a wider influence. She had a peculiar voice, rather
deep set, and, at least in speaking, only admitting of a limited range
of compass; but every word spoken by her was so nicely adjusted, so
carefully modulated, that the simplest and most ill-formed sentence
acquired a rude eloquence. This was her speaking voice. When she sang,
it rose into power; it was then a deep contralto, utterly untaught,
but free and easy as the notes of a bird. Hester could do what she
liked with men and women when she sang to them, and she knew her power.
In her own circle she was more or less of a queen, and although she
was no better and no richer than the poorest of the Liverpool girls,
yet her smallest word of approbation was treasured almost as if it had
been a royal gift. She had a great insight into character; she had
large tact, and she was also affectionate.