“Oh, mother, dear mother, how could you be so foolish?”
“Foolish, Hazel?”
“Yes, dear. He must not come. I could not see him. Why can he not leave me here in peace?”
“I—I—will not be spoken to like this by my own child!” cried Mrs Thorne. “It is cruel; it is wicked of you, Hazel. You not only degrade me to this terrible life, but you speak to me as if I were so much dirt under your feet. It is cruel; it is disgraceful; it is base.”
“Mother, dear mother,” cried Hazel, whose face was aflame with mortification.
“No, no, don’t touch me; don’t come near me; I cannot bear it. Foolish? What have I done that Heaven should have given me such a cruel child?”
By this time Hazel’s arms were round her mother’s neck, and her cheek laid upon her bosom, but it was long before Mrs Thorne would consent to the embrace, and leave off sobbing and wringing her hands.
“When you might be rolling in your carriage, and have every luxury in the land.”
“But I want us to be independent, dear. We might be so happy here.”
“Happy?” exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a hysterical laugh. “Happy—here?”