Chapter Thirteen.
Wilton pere and mere had not been gone five minutes when there was a gentle tap at Kate’s door, and she started and turned her fearful face in that direction, but made no reply. The tap was repeated,
“Miss Kate,” came in a sharp whisper; “it is only me, my dear.”
“Ah,” sighed the girl, as if in relief; and she nearly ran to the door, turned the key, and admitted the old servant, locked the door again, and flung her arms about the woman’s neck, to bury her face in her breast, and sob as if her heart would break.
“There, there, there,” cooed the woman, as if to the little child she had nursed long years before; and she led her gently to a couch, and drew the weeping girt down half reclining upon her breast. “Cry then, my precious; it will do you good; and then you must tell Liza all about it—what has been the matter, dear?”
“Matter!” cried Kate, starting up, and gazing angrily in the woman’s face. “Liza, it’s horrible. Why did I ever come to this dreadful house?”
“Hush, hush, my own; you will make yourself had again. We must not have you ill.”
“Bad—ill?” cried Kate. “Better dead and at rest. Oh, I hate him! I hate him! How dare he touch me like that! It was horrible—an outrage!”