That night the music burst from her lips before she had taken off her cloak and hat.
“You made six hundred dollars, Abbie! You!” cried the mother, with a note of wonder in her voice.
Then the whole story came out; her mother's arms about her, the pale cheek touching her own, tears of joy streaming from both their eyes. First Maria's luck, then that of her fellow-clerks; then the letters, one after another, spread out upon her lap, the lamp held close, so the dim eyes could read the easier—down to the stake-money of two hundred dollars.
“And who gave you that, child? Miss Furgusson?” The mother's heart was still fluttering. After all, the sun was shining.
“No; Mr. Taylor.”
The mother put her hands to her head.
“Hiram! You ain't never borrowed any money of Hiram, have you?” she cried in an agonized voice.
“But, Mother dear, he forced it upon me. He came—”
“Yes, that's what he did to me. Give it back to him, child, now, 'fore you sleep. Don't wait a minute. Borrowed two hundred dollars of Hiram—and my child, too! Oh, it can't be! It can't be!”
The mother dropped into a chair and rocked herself to and fro. The girl started to explain, to protest, to comfort her with promises; then she crossed to where her mother was sitting, and stood patient until the paroxysm should pass. A sudden fright now possessed her; these attacks were coming on oftener; was her mother's mind failing? Was there anything serious? Perhaps it would have been better not to tell her at all.