"We?" cried Selene, alarmed. "No, no, I must go home."
"But my child you cannot walk farther than the court-yard even if we both help you."
"Then let me get a litter out in the street. My father—no one must know—I cannot."
Hannah signed to Mary to leave them, and when she had shut the door on the deformed girl, she brought a stool, sat down opposite to Selene, laid a hand on the knee that was not hurt, and said:
"Now, dear girl, we are alone. I am no chatterbox, and will certainly not betray your confidence. Tell me quietly who you belong to. Tell me —you believe that I mean well by you?"
"Yes," replied Selene, looking the widow full in the face— a regularly-cut face, set in abundant smooth brown hair, and with the stamp of genuine and heart-felt goodness. "Yes—you remind me of my mother."
"Well, I might be your mother."
"I am nineteen years old already."
"Already," replied Hannah, with a smile. "Why my life has been twice as long as yours. I had a child, too, a boy; and he was taken from me when he was quite little. He would be a year older than you now, my child— is your mother still alive?"
"No," said Selene, with her old dry manner, that had become a habit. "The gods have taken her from us. She would have been, like you, not quite forty now, and she was as pretty and as kind as you are. When she died she left seven children besides me, all little, and one of them blind. I am the eldest, and do what I can for them, that they may not be starved."