"Twenty-one years ago last night, I committed a great wrong in the face of God and the law," she said; "that woman," here she lifted her long, boney finger and pointed it towards Mrs. Farnham, "that woman had wronged me and the being I loved better than myself, and this filled me with a heathenish thirst for vengeance upon her."
"Me! me! why, did you ever—I never wronged a creature in my whole life—you know how bland and gentle I always am!" whimpered that lady.
"Be still!" interposed aunt Hannah in the same deep voice. "The husband of that woman was betrothed to me in my youth."
"I'll never believe that, never—never!" cried Mrs. Farnham, flushing up angrily.
"Peace, I say, and do not interrupt me again. My parents died leaving Anna, a little girl pretty as an angel, for Nathan and I to take care of; she was the dearest, loveliest little thing."
"I'll take my Bible oath of that," cried Salina, reddening suddenly around the eyes, "I never set eyes on anything half so purty in my life."
"I gave up all for this child, and so did Nathan; we both agreed to live single for her sake and be parents to her."
"More fools you," muttered Salina, "as if uncle Nat's wife couldn't and wouldn't have taken care of a dozen such children, that is, if he'd only had sense enough to choose a smart—but what's the use, it's all over now."
This was said in a muttered undertone, and aunt Hannah went on without heeding it.
"It was a hard struggle, for I was young then, and loved the man I expected to spend my life with—Nathan too"—