"What gars ye say that?" she asked quickly.
"Jenny," said Mona, in a voice that shook with sympathy, "when I went out last night, I found Maggie at the house. She has come home."
She never could remember afterwards whether she added anything more, or whether Jenny guessed at once what had befallen. There were a few quick imperious questions, and then the old woman dropped her bundle and burst into a torrent of wrath that made Mona's blood run cold. For some minutes she could scarcely understand a word of the incoherent outcry, but it was an awful experience to see the dim figure of the mother, standing there with upraised hands on the deserted road, calling down curses upon her child.
Presently she picked up her bundle, and walked on so swiftly that Mona could scarcely keep pace with her.
"Hoo daured she come hame?" she muttered. "Hoo daured she, hoo daured she? Could she no' bide whaur naebody kent her, and no' shame her auld mither afore a' the folk? The barefaced hussy! I'd ha' slammed the door i' her face. An' she'll oot o' the hoose this vera nicht, she an' the bairn o' her shame. There's no' room yonder for baith her an' me. I nae care what comes o' them. She suld ha' thocht o' that i' time. We maun e'en reap what we saw. Frae this day forrit she's nae bairn o' mine, and I'll no' lie doon ae nicht wi' a shameless strumpet unner my roof."
"If you turn her out of the house," Mona said quietly, "you will tell all the world what has happened. At present it is a secret."
Jenny's face brightened, but only for a moment.
"Ye needna pit yersel' aboot tae tell me the like o' that," she said bitterly. "Or maybe ye're but a lassie yet, and dinna ken hoo lang thae secrets is like tae be keepit. I niver keepit ane mysel', and it's no' likely ither folk are gaun to begin noo." Then she burst into a wailing cry, "Eh, Miss Maclean, I'm sair stricken! I can turn her oot o' my hoose, but I'll niver haud up my held again. What's dune canna be undune."
"What is done cannot be undone," Mona answered very slowly; "but it can be made a great deal worse. The child did not know her trouble was so near, when she came to ask your advice and help. Where else, indeed, should she have gone? Would you have had her drift on to the streets? Because she has lost what you call her good name, do you care nothing for her soul? I think, in all my life, I never knew anything so beautiful as the trustful way in which that poor little thing came home to her mother. I'm sure I should not have had the courage to do it. She knew you better than you do yourself. She had not sat on your knee and heard all your loving words for nothing; and when the world treated her cruelly, and she fell into temptation, she knew where to turn. Fifty vows and promises of reformation would not mean so much. If I were a mother, I should turn my back on a storm of gossip and slander, and thank God on my bended knees for that."
Mona paused, and in the darkness she heard a suppressed sob.