“I didn’t mean his looks,” said Vashti with emphasis.
“Well, one’s looks are generally the sign of how one feels,” said Mabella bravely, although she winced beneath Vashti’s regard. “And Vashti, Dorothy can speak, she——”
Vashti broke in with the inconsiderateness of a childless woman.
“Do you know anything about Ann Serrup? Is she penitent?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Mabella hesitatingly (she had heard most unpromising accounts of Ann’s state of mind, “Fair rampageous,” Temperance had said), “she has suffered a great deal.”
“She has sinned a great deal,” said Vashti sententiously.
They walked on almost in silence, and ere long stood before the low-lying, desolate dwelling.
A girl came to the open door as they drew near—poorly but neatly clad, and with tightly rolled hair. A girl in years—a woman in experience. A child stood tottering beside her.
“Come in,” she said to them before they had time to speak, “come in and set down.”
She picked up the child, and unceremoniously tucking him under one arm, set two chairs side by side; then put the baby down and stood as one before her accusers. Her brows were a little sullen; her mouth irresolute. Her expression discontented and peevish, as of one weary of uncomprehended rebuke. The baby clutched her dress, and eyed the visitors placidly, quite unaware that his presence was disgraceful.