"Hush! Don't say that."
"I do say it. I mean it. I want you to believe me. Nobody's ever believed me or—been kind to me—except you and——" she was sobbing now, "if you're going back on me—I don't care—for anything." She sprang up suddenly with a fierce gesture, and pointed to the door. "Go on! Call in Grimes! Give me up!"
"I don't want to give you up," soothed Betty; "but—I must do what is right. Sit down! Tell me the rest. What about Rosalie?"
At the mention of her sister, Hester's face softened.
"Say, she was the finest girl, the prettiest girl, you ever saw. That's why I liked you, because you—honest you did—you made me think of Rosalie."
"Yes?"
"But she wasn't strong. She worked thirteen hours a day at a sewing machine, a damned heavy thing that'd break your back and—she never went to the country and—she never had a pretty dress."
"What a wicked shame!"
"Every cent she made she spent on us. Then she got sick and—she coughed a lot and—she couldn't work the machine. There she'd lie on the bed, in a little back room, with her face all flushed and I'd hear her say, 'Please, God, take care of Hester and Jamie, and let me see the green fields—just once.' Say, lady, what would you have done, if you'd been me?"
"I—I don't know," murmured Betty, wiping her eyes.