I stopped short, fancying I heard a noise outside, and looked out into the passage. There he was, skulking as usual, making pretence to rummage in a cupboard just outside the door.
"What are you doing, Uncle?" I asked weakly, very weakly.
"What are you doing, one asks."
"I just—opened the door...."
"Ah," he said, slipping away.
"Has he heard?" asked Robert fearfully.
"Every word. I don't care. He knows the truth now; he can't treat me worse than he has done. I hate him. Everything is hateful. All the world is against me always; 'tis all beating and starving and meanness and misery; and nobody loves me. I wish I'd never been born, I do, I do." I broke down and sat on the bed, sobbing bitterly.
"Don't, Mary," huskily, "everybody doesn't hate you, I don't." He sat beside me and put his arm on my shoulder.
That was the beginning of happiness.
I cried more than ever, but they were other tears.