“I tried, for you!” muttered Lena. “I tried; you know I did!”
“Yes, I know you did; and I appreciated it. You failed, that was all. You are discouraged, and so am I. Now, tell me! What else can I do, to make a good girl of you? For it’s got to be done, you see,” he added firmly. “I can’t have this any longer. You disgrace the chapel, and the people, and me. It makes me unhappy, Lena.”
“Mr. Bayard! Mr. Bayard!” said Lena with trembling lip, “I’ll go drown in the outer harbor. I ain’t fit to live ... if you care. I didn’t suppose you cared.”
“You are not fit to die, Lena,” returned Bayard gently. “And I do care. I have always thought you were born to be a fine woman. There’s something I like about you. You are generous, and brave, and kind-hearted. Then see what a voice you have! You might have been a singer, Lena, and sung noble things—the music that makes people purer and better. You might have”....
“Oh, my God!” cried Lena; “I was singin’ in that—in there—to-night. They’re always after me to sing ’em into damnation.”
“Lena,” said Bayard in a thrilling tone, “look into my face!”
She obeyed him. High above her short stature Bayard’s delicate countenance looked down at the girl. All the loathing, all the horror, all the repulsion that was in him for the sin he suffered the sinner to see for the first time. His tender face darkened and quivered, shrinking like some live thing that she tormented.
“Oh,” wailed Lena, “am I like that—to you? Is it as bad as that?”
“It is as bad as that,” answered the minister solemnly.
“Then I’ll go drown,” said Lena dully; “I might as well.”