longer keep her, and sent her away? For then there would still have been
affection and gratitude in her heart for the woman who had done so much
for her, and she would have looked forward with hope to a future meeting.
Love and hope would have cheered her in her loneliness, and made her
strong in her efforts to live. But now all loving ties had been violently
sundered, now the separation was eternal. Even as death had divided her
from her poor mother, this cruel deed had now put her for all time apart
from the one friend she had possessed in the world. What had she done,
what had she done to be treated so hardly? Had she not been faithful,
loving her mistress with her whole heart? It was little to give in return
for so much, but it was her all, and Mary had required nothing more from
her. It was not enough; Mary had grown tired of her at last. And not
tired only: her loving-kindness had turned to wormwood and gall; the very
sight of the girl she had rescued and cared for had become hateful to
her, and her unjust hatred and anger had resulted in that cruel outrage.
Now she understood the reason of that change in Mary, when she grew
silent and stern and repellent before that fatal morning when she went
away to carry out her heartless scheme of revenge. But revenge for what?
--and Fan could only moan again and again, "What had I done? what had I
done?" What had she ever done that she should not be loved and allowed to
live in peace and happiness--what had she done to her brutal stepfather,
or to Captain Horton and to Rosie, that they should take pleasure in
tormenting her?

When the woman came in with the breakfast she found Fan lying sobbing on
her pillow.

"Oh, that's wrong to cry so," she said, putting the tray on the table and
coming to the bedside. "Don't take on so, my poor young lady. Things'll
come right by-and-by. You'll write to your mother and father----"