"Oh!" she cried, and her truthful eyes judged the girl sternly.
The culprit faced her in pleading appeal. She had played her last card recklessly, impulsively, risking everything. She never understood afterward what had impelled her to this dangerous unnecessary confession. Was it fear or calculation? She knew that if Betty betrayed her it was all up with little Hester, and she had no reason to believe that Miss Thompson would condone or tolerate an act of flagrant wickedness. Yet she had told her.
"A thief!" shivered Betty.
"Yes, a thief," flung out the other, in half defiance. "You don't think I'm good enough to touch, do ye? Maybe I'm not, but—say, do you want to know what made me steal—the first time? Do you want to know?" The words tumbled out in a fierce tumult, and Betty, fascinated, watched this strange girl as her dark eyes blazed and her nostrils quivered.
"Tell me," said Betty gently, "sit here—tell me everything." And, leading the way to the davenport, she placed Hester beside her. "Now!"
"I was only a kid—about twelve," panted the penitent. "We lived on Orchard street."
"New York?"
"Yes. In a rotten tenement and—my sister Rosalie—she was seventeen—she took care of us, me and my little brother."
"Wait!" interposed Betty. "Is this true? You mustn't try to work on my feelings. You must tell me the truth. You know you haven't—Hester—at other times."
The Storm girl sat biting her red lips and twisting her fingers nervously. "I've been crooked," she said, speaking low, "but, lady, I hope God will strike me dead if——"