Sarah Woodham jerked herself free, and stood as if at bay, her eyes in the gloom flashing with anger; but with quiet firmness Mary Dillon followed her, took hold of her wrist, and led her from the chamber of death, and out across the hall to the drawing-room.
“Why, Woodham!” said Mary, gently, “what does this mean?”
The woman looked at her fiercely, as if resenting the question, and half turned away.
“Don’t be angry with me for asking,” said Mary gently. “It was so strange.”
“Is it strange for a woman to pray, Miss?” was asked in solemn tones.
“No, no, of course not; but I could not help feeling surprised to see you kneeling there.”
“We all need forgiveness, Miss, for the sins we commit.”
Mary Dillon winced and looked angrily at the woman, for it sounded to her like an insult to the dead for this woman, their servant, to take upon herself so sacred a duty.
“Yes, Miss, we all need forgiveness for what we have done. Don’t keep me, please, I cannot hear to talk now.”
“I am sorry if I have said anything to wound you,” continued Mary. “I ought to have been pleased; I am sure my poor cousin will for your sympathy and thoughtful ways.”