"I don't believe a word you say. I wouldn't trust you a minute. How much you have stolen now it will be hard to tell, and I shouldn't wonder if we all had the smallpox. Leave the house instantly."
"Oh, please give me a chance," cried Zell, on her knees. "Indeed, I am honest. I'll work for you for nothing, if you will let me stay."
"Leave instantly, or I will call for a policeman."
"Then pay me my week's wages," sobbed Zell.
"I won't pay you a cent, you brazen creature. You didn't know how to do anything, and have been a torment ever since you came. I might have known there was something wrong. Now go, take your old, pest-infected rags out of my house, or I will have you sent to where you properly belong. Thank Heaven, I have found you out."
A sudden change came over Zell. She sprang up, and a scowl black as night darkened her face.
"What has Heaven to do with your sending a poor girl out into the night, I would like to know?" she asked, in a harsh, grating voice; "I wouldn't do it. Therefore, I am better than you are. Heaven has nothing to do with either you or me;" and she looked so dark and dangerous that her mistress was frightened, and ran up to the parlor, exclaiming:
"She's an awful creature. I'm afraid of her."
Then that manly being, her husband, towered up in his wrath, saying, majestically, "I guess I'm master in my own house yet."
He showed poor Zell the door. Her laugh rang out recklessly, as she called—