"He was not," answered the hag.
"And now tell me, without circumlocution, what business has brought you hither—for that you came to meet with me I have no doubt."
"Sit down by me, my child," said the hag, "and listen while I speak to you."
"Nay—I can attend to you as well here," returned Ellen, laughing, as she leant against one of the trees—an attitude which revealed her tiny feet and delicate ankles.
"You seem to have no confidence in me," observed the hag; "and yet I have ever been your friend."
"Yes—you have helped me to my ruin," said Ellen, mournfully. "And yet I scarcely blame you for all that, because you only aided me to discover what I sought at the time—and that was bread at any sacrifice. Well—go on, and delay not: I will listen to you, if only through motives of curiosity."
"My sweet child," said the harridan, endeavouring to twist her wrinkled face into as pleasing an expression as possible, "a strange thing has come to my knowledge. What would you think if I told you that a man of pure and stainless life, who is virgin of all sin,—a man who to a handsome exterior unites a brilliant intellect,—a man whose eloquence can excite the aristocracy as well as produce a profound impression upon the middle classes,—a man possessed of a fine fortune and a high position,—what would you think, I say, if I told you that such a man has become enamoured of you?"
"I should first wonder how such a phœnix of perfection came to select you as his intermediate," answered Ellen, with a smile, which displayed her brilliant teeth.
"A mere accident made me acquainted with his passion," said the hag. "But surely you would not scorn the advances of a man who would sacrifice every thing for you—who would consent to fall from his high place for one single hour of your love—who would lay his whole fortune at your feet as a proof of his sincerity."
"To cut short this conversation, I will answer you with sincerity," returned Ellen. "Mr. Greenwood is the only man who can boast of a favour which involves my shame: he is the father of my child. I do not love him—I have no reason to love him: nevertheless, he is—I repeat—the father of my child! That expresses every thing. Who knows but that, sooner or later, he may do me justice? And should such an idea ever enter his mind, must I not retain myself worthy of that repentant sentiment on his part?"