"I don't s'pose there's any reason why I shouldn't tell you," she said more easily. "Everybody around here knows about me—about us. Aunt Tillie and I haven't lived here always. She brought me here when I was a child."
She paused again and Peter remained silent, watching her intently. As she glanced up at him, something in the expression of his face gave her courage to go on.
"Father's dead. His name was Ben Cameron. He came of nice people," she faltered. "But he—he was no good. We lived up near New Lisbon. He used to get drunk on 'Jersey Lightnin'' and tear loose. He was all right between whiles—farmin'—but whisky made him crazy, and then—then he would come home and beat us up."
"Horrible!"
"It was. I was too little to know much, but Aunt Tillie's husband came at last and there was a terrible fight. Uncle Will was hurt—hurt so bad—cut with a knife—that he never was the same again. And my—my father went away cursing us all. Then my mother died—Uncle Will too—and Aunt Tillie and I came down here to live. That's all. Not much to be proud of," she finished ruefully.
Peter was silent. It was a harrowing, sordid story of primitive passion. He was very sorry for her.
Beth made an abrupt graceful movement of an arm across her brows, as though to wipe out the memory.
"I don't know why I've told you," she said. "I never speak of this to any one."
"I'm so sorry."
He meant it. And Beth knew that he did.