"Of course not." But instantly ashamed of her weak disloyalty she had declared with a show of spirit, "However, unless Hank says she must go she can stay, for Essie has come pretty close to bein' like my own girl to me."
Dr. Harpe had been satisfied to let it rest at that, for she felt sure enough of Terriberry's answer.
"He needs my money, but if more pressure is necessary,"—she sniggered at the recollection of Mr. Terriberry's sentimental leanings—"I can spend an hour with him in the light of the 'meller moon.'"
Again Dr. Harpe was right. Mr. Terriberry needed the money, also his fears took instant alarm at the thought of losing so popular and influential a guest, one, who, as he told Mrs. Terriberry emphatically, could do him a power of harm. The actual dismissal of the girl who had grown to womanhood under his eyes he wisely left to his wife.
The girl stood up now, a slender, swaying figure: white, desolate, with uplifted arms outstretched, she looked like a storm-whipped flower.
"Oh, what shall I do! Where shall I go!"
The low, broken-hearted cry of despair set Mrs. Terriberry's plain face in lines of distress.
"Essie, Essie, don't feel so bad!" she begged chokingly.
The girl's answer was a swift look of bitter reproach.
"You can stay here until you find some place that suits you."