“I told you that at the start,” cried Madam Speckbom, half-bitterly and half-triumphantly, “she’ll stay here, said I, just till she is well, then she’ll run off. For I know the blood, that I do; and besides, now I hear that fellow of hers is a gypsy. If I had only known that, he would never have got permission to go with her that accursed evening.”
“It might be she would come back yet,” interrupted Miss Falbe.
“Yes, just let her try it,” cried Madam, menacingly.
“But, Madam Speckbom! You wouldn’t tear her to pieces!”
“That I would, Miss Falbe—as sure as my name is Caroline Speckbom. It would be a sin and a shame to help one who will not be helped; there are enough, in all conscience, who need it.”
“Yes, but those who will not be helped are just the ones who need help the most.”
“Pardon, Miss Falbe; but there’s no sense in that. Sometimes you are too bright and learned—just like Dr. Bentzen—that is, you are ten thousand times better—in every direction—oh, there can be no comparison!” added Madam, thoroughly abashed that she had come to compare the excellent Miss Falbe with anything so abominable as Dr. Bentzen.
It was a hard winter for the poor. It was well to cling to one of the charitable ladies who brought aid from the various institutions. And aid came to many, and did good where it came.