She stamped in fury.
“Leave me! Go to your own! Don’t dare to link my name with his again.”
The girl had risen to her feet. Quite cowed as she was for the moment, a joy was in her heart to hear herself so repudiated in that company. Her worst fears were laid: her venom was turned to honey. She whimpered a little, in a panic half feigned, half felt,—
“There, I don’t want to. I’m going, for sure.” Then a spit of courage came to her—“and I’ll tell the other he may just die for all you care”—and she turned.
But, before she could reach the door, a swift step followed, and a soft white hand, ringed and scented, was placed upon her shoulder. She hesitated an instant, faced round, and the next moment the two, high saint and lowly sinner, were clasped together weeping.
Poor Molly knew her place. She sunk at the other’s feet again, till Yolande knelt beside her, and put her arms about the shameful head.
“Poor child! poor sinful woman,” she said, to a flurry of sighs and sobs. “O, what was I to hold you so apart! But you don’t understand—you can’t, God pity you. The worse for him that killed your innocence.”
“He—”
“I’ll not hear his name.”
“He was my only one; and—and, for your sake, he’s been wanting to make me good.”