Rest!—rest was a fiction; she was better walking—such aches, and cramps, and pains in every joint! She would get up and push on, and yet minute after minute went by, and she could not summon courage.
She was sitting with her beautiful face in the light of a lamp. A woman well and handsomely dressed was passing rapidly through the rain, but on seeing her stopped and said:—
"My poor girl, why do you sit there in the damp entry, such a night as this?"
"I am cold, hungry, ruined; that's why I sit under the arch," replied Mary, rising up.
"Come home with me," said the woman; "I will take care of you."
"I am going to my friends," replied she.
"Are you sure they will be glad to see you, my dear," said the woman, "with that pretty little pledge at your bosom?"
"I care not," said Mary, "I told you I was desperate."
"Desperate, my pretty love," said the woman; "a girl with beauty like yours should never be desperate; come with me."
Mary stepped forward and struck her, so full and true that the woman reeled backwards, and stood whimpering and astonished.