“Let me in! Let me in! I want to speak to you!” and the hand rattled on the glass.
She recognised immediately the woman with the long dark hair, to whom she had given warmth, food, and shelter, one wet night. Naturally afraid of her, remembering her violent behaviour, Harriet, retreating a little from the window, stood undecided and alarmed.
“Let me in! Let me speak to you! I am thankful—quiet—humble—anything you like. But let me speak to you.”
The vehement manner of the entreaty, the earnest expression of the face, the trembling of the two hands that were raised imploringly, a certain dread and terror in the voice akin to her own condition at the moment, prevailed with Harriet. She hastened to the door and opened it.
“May I come in, or shall I speak here?” said the woman, catching at her hand.
“What is it that you want? What is it that you have to say?”
“Not much, but let me say it out, or I shall never say it. I am tempted now to go away. There seem to be hands dragging me from the door. Let me come in, if you can trust me for this once!”
Her energy again prevailed, and they passed into the firelight of the little kitchen, where she had before sat, and ate, and dried her clothes.
“Sit there,” said Alice, kneeling down beside her, “and look at me. You remember me?”
“I do.”