“Well, little one, what have you been doing to-day?”
Instantly a shade fell over her countenance. “I hardly know how to tell you. It has been a day of great experiences to me. I am literally shaken with them. I have been wanting to talk to Ona about what I have seen and heard, but thought I had best wait till you came home, for I could not repeat the story twice.”
“What! you look pale. Nothing has happened to frighten you I hope,” exclaimed he, leading her back to Ona’s side, who stirred a little, and presently deigned to take an upright position.
“I do not know if it is fear or horror,” cried Paula, shuddering; “I have seen a fearful woman—But first I ought to tell you that I took a ride with Miss Stuyvesant in the Park this morning—”
“Yes, and persisted in going for that lady on horseback instead of sending the groom after her, and all starting from the front of our house,” murmured Mrs. Sylvester with lazy chagrin.
Paula smiled, but otherwise took no notice of this standing topic of disagreement.
“It was a beautiful day,” she proceeded, “and we enjoyed it very much, but we were so unfortunate as to run over a little boy, at that place where the equestrian road crosses the foot path; a lame child, Mr. Sylvester, who could not get out of our way; poor too, with a ragged jacket on which seemed to make it all the worse.”
Ona gave a shrug with her white shoulders, that seemed to question this. “Did you injure him very much?” queried she, with a show of interest; not sufficient however to impair her curiosity as to the cut of one of her nails.
“I cannot say; his little arm was struck, and when I went to pick him up, he lay back in my lap and moaned till I thought my heart would break. But that was not the worst that happened. As we went hurrying up the walk to find the child’s father, we were met by a woman wrapped in a black cloak whose long and greasy folds seemed like the symbol of her own untold depravity. Her glance as she encountered the child writhing in pain at my feet, made my heart stand still. It was more than malignant, it was actually fiendish. ‘Is he hurt?’ she asked, and it seemed as if she gloated over the question; she evidently longed to hear that he was, longed to be told that he would die; and when I inquired if she was his mother, she broke into a string of laughter, that seemed to darken the daylight. ‘His mother! O yes, we look alike, don’t we!’ she exclaimed, pointing with a mocking gesture frightful to see, first at his eyes which were very blue and beautiful, and then at her own which were dark as evil thoughts could make them. I never saw anything so dreadful. Malignancy! and towards a little lame child! what could be more horrible!”
Mr. Sylvester and his wife exchanged looks, then the former asked, “Did she follow you, Paula?”