“Give up your sin. Go back to him and ask his pardon.”
“You don’t know him. His pride’s above his station. He’d ne’er suffer me again to come anigh him.”
“Wouldn’t he? What a thing’s this pride in men!—a vengeance, not a judge! Fatherless, then! O, O! that’s to be lost and helpless—crying to a void—sinking, sinking; and not a straw to hold by!”
“Ah, hush ye, pretty one—hush ye!”
The Magdalen, with winking wondering eyes, was become the comforter. She clasped the cold hands within her own warm palms, and mumbled them, and loved their softness. Yolande, her head bowed, sat grieving still a little.
“To look all round, and not to know where to turn—no guide, no help out of this maze!”
She snuffled, and mopped her eyes; then struggled to regain her estate. “There, child! my heart bleeds for you! What is your name? O! I forgot; you haven’t one”—for, indeed, to this sweet orthodoxy, an unchurched passion was a nameless thing—a maiden title forfeited to anonymity.
“I’m Molly Bramble, please my lady.”
She hung her head. The other pursed her lips a moment.
“Well, well, child—we’ll call you as we call our dog or parrot—terms for distinguishment.”