"You are a woman like myself," cried Ida May, sobbing bitterly. "Surely you can not find it in your heart to turn a deaf ear to me, for pity's sake, if for nothing else."
But the woman was inexorable, and said:
"I tell you, I don't want to hear what you have got to say—and I won't, that's all about it. If you make any fuss, you will be put on a diet of bread and water."
"But answer me this one question," said Ida May, in terror. "What reason has any one in keeping me here against my will?"
The woman shrugged her shoulders.
"There may be plenty of reasons," she retorted, sharply. "Perhaps you are a wife that some man wants to be rid of. Then, again, perhaps you are no wife—a better reason still for some young man wishing to get you safely out of his path just now. A father or a brother may have brought you here to save the family honor. I could go on with any amount of practical reasons."
"Have I not told you that I am all alone in the world?" panted the poor girl, clinging to her with death-cold hands.
"Yes; but I have good reason to think otherwise," replied the woman, bluntly. "There's no use in your making a fuss," continued the woman, harshly. "You may have to put in a long time beneath this roof."