“I will swear it,” repeated Mahala.
Rebecca brought her lips close to Mahala’s ear and whispered three words. Mahala drew back, staring at her with pitiful eyes.
“Oh, Becky!” she cried, “is that what you search for? I will help you! Truly I will! Come, now, and have something to eat. You’re so tired.”
They went back to the front stoop together. Because Mahala untied and slipped it back with gentle hands, Rebecca spared her bonnet, and for the first time, Mahala had the chance really to study her features, her hair, the set of her head upon the column of her throat, and the figure concealed by the unbecoming dress. She could see that in her youth Rebecca must have been a beautiful girl. Under the grime of travel and the nerve strain of fatigue, she was still beautiful.
Mahala made a pretence of eating after that. Surreptitiously, she pushed all of the food she had under Rebecca’s fingers. When they had finished, Mahala discovered that Rebecca was studying her intently. Then she looked over the neglected dooryard, at the old house, and back to Mahala.
“Little angel lady,” she said, “you are kind to me in Ashwater. Why are you here?”
A sudden tremor quivered across Mahala’s face.
“Becky, dear,” she said, “this is my home now. It’s the only place to live, that I have left. You know that my father went to Heaven and I lost my beautiful home, so now this is the only home I have. I’m coming here to live, to see if I can cure my mother’s broken heart.”
Rebecca listened, her face full of intelligence.
Suddenly she leaned again and in a low voice she whispered: “Who broke your mother’s heart?”