Sybil made no answer to the woman's remark, but sat for a time in silence, looking straight before her after her old fashion.
"I wish I could give you a bite to eat or drink," said the woman, "but we hain't got a living thing."
Sybil roused herself at once.
"I am in want of nothing," she said; "I must go home now."
"Dear me, you ain't rested; it's a hard ride."
Sybil did not inform her that she had come alone and on foot. She placed some money in the woman's hand, and said kindly, but with emphasis:
"You need not say that I have been here."
"Nobody'll ask," replied the woman; "if they did, it wouldn't do no good—I hain't forgot! Oh, ma'am, I ain't a good woman; I'm a poor, ignorant, bad-tempered critter, that Joe often says would be better off in my grave; but God bless you, that can't do you no harm, forlorn as I be. God bless you, ma'am!"
Sybil hurried away to escape the wound these words gave her. Her better feelings were aroused, and somehow that simple, uncouth benediction jarred upon her ear; it made her more nervous than she had been while threading her way through the lonely woods, and she hastened out into the night once more.