"Are you really his mother?" said Julia.
"Yes, I am really his mother!" was the mocking reply; "what have you against it?"
"Nothing, nothing—only I should think you would be afraid to have him here!"
"And your mother—she isn't afraid to have you here, I suppose."
"I have no mother!" said Julia, in a tone of sadness, that made itself felt even upon the bad nature of her listener.
"No mother, well don't mourn for that," said the woman, with a touch of passionate feeling. "Thank God for it, if you believe in a God; she won't follow you here with her white, miserable face; she won't starve to keep you from sin—or die—die by inches, I tell you, because all is of no use. You won't see her crowded into a pine coffin, and tumbled into Potter's Field, and feel—feel in the very core of your heart that you have sent her there. Thank God—thank God, I say, miserable girl, that you have no mother!"
The woman had risen as she spoke, her imposing features, her whole form quivering with passion. Tears crowded into her lurid eyes, giving them fire, depth, and expression. She ceased speaking, fell upon the seat again, and, covering her face with the soiled novel, sobbed aloud.
The child, released from the bondage of her foot, stood up, trembling beneath the storm of her words; but when she fell down and began to weep, his lips grew tremulous, his little chest began to heave, and climbing up the stool upon which his mother crouched, he leaned over and kissed her temple.
This angel kiss fell upon her forehead like a drop of dew; she dashed the novel from her face, and flung her arm over the child.