"She hates me," said Maggie. "She says I've disgraced her and I disgrace you, and that it's a disgrace to have me here. She and Uncle Mike both said so, and I said I'd go off, then."
"But where could you go?" said Eva.
"Oh, I know places enough! They're bad, to be sure. I wanted to do better, so I came away; but I can go back again."
"No, Maggie, you must never go back. You must do as I tell you. Have I not been a friend to you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, you have; but they say I disgrace you."
"Maggie, I don't think so. I never said so. There is no need that you should disgrace anybody. I hope you'll live to be a credit to your mother—a credit to us all. You are young yet; you have a good many years to live; and if you'll only go on and do the very best you can from this time, you can be a comfort to your mother and be a good woman. It's never too late to begin, Maggie, and I'll help you now."
Maggie sat still and gazed gloomily before her.
"Come, now, I'll sing you some little hymns," said Eva, going to her piano and touching a few chords. "You've got your mind all disturbed, and I'll sing to you till you are more quiet."
Eva had a sweet voice, and a light, dreamy sort of touch on the piano, and she played and sung with feeling.
There were truths in religion, higher, holier, deeper than she felt capable of uttering, which breathed themselves in these hymns; and something within her gave voice and pathos to them.