"No, ma'am!"
Katherine stared at her, out of astonished eyes.
"No, ma'am!" repeated Martha. "When I took Ellen Hinckley to Burbank, it was outa harm's way. If I took you it'd be into it. Ellen Hinckley was a poor, weak sister, which runnin' away was all there was for her. You are strong as they make'm, an' stayin' 's all there is for you. Ellen owed it to herself to leave her mother. You owe it to yourself to stand by yours."
"Then I'll go to Mr. Ronald. He'll take me—when I tell him."
"Don't you believe it. An' you won't tell'm either, Miss Katherine. You're too proud, an' he's too fair. It wouldn't take him a minute to tell you, 'Stay by the poor little ol' lady, till she's no need o' you no more, which it won't be long, now, anyhow.' It wouldn't take'm a minute to tell you that, Miss Katherine—not for Madam Crewe's sake—but for yours."
"I'll never go back," the girl reiterated determinedly. "Whatever I do, I'll never go back. If you won't take me to Burbank, I'll wait here at the station, for the trolley. There'll be another train out sometime. I'll get to Boston somehow."
"Miss Katherine," Martha pleaded, but the girl stopped her with an impatient gesture.
"It's no use, Mrs. Slawson. I feel as if there were nothing but ugliness and horror in all the world. It's come out—even in you!"
Martha turned her face away quickly, as if she had been struck.
"I've not gone back on you, Miss Katherine. Take my word for it, till you can see for yourself what I say's true. You think everything's ugly now. That's because you got knocked, same as if it was, flat on your back. You're just bowled clean over. You're lookin' at things upside down. But let me tell you somethin'—there's been good in all the knocks ever I got in my life, if I had the sense to see."