“Blue eyes and auburn hair; did his hair curl?” asked her mother.
“Yes,” answered Nettie, “and he is about twenty-two or three. He lives alone with his mother, who is a frail, sickly woman.”
“Did you ever see her?”
“No, mother, but cousin says she is tall and dark complexioned, with black eyes, and her given name is Margaret or Margretia, I do not know which.”
“It is the same woman and must be their son. Oh, my God! why have I come to this?” exclaimed Mrs. Spaulding.
“Why, mother, what is the matter, and who are you referring to?” asked Nettie, noticing her mother’s pale face.
“My child, one you never saw—and I hope you may never meet him or any of his descendants.”
“Why, mother. His descendants should not be cruelly judged by his conduct. You speak as though he had been guilty of some great criminal act. I do not see what he has to do with Paul Burton, the young man I was speaking of,” said Nettie, turning and looking out of the window.
“If I had known it would have troubled you, mother, I would not have told you anything about him. You seemed so anxious to know why I returned so soon I thought it proper to tell you all. The young man was supposed rich and I was a poor girl with only my good name to sustain. I deemed it best to try his love. If he loves me sincerely he will find me; if he does not, it is better I should be far away. Do you not think my act justifiable, mother?”
“Yes, my child, you did what is right and proper, and I am glad you came home, and I hope my conjecture is not true,” answered the mother sorrowfully.