“You’re not a woman at all; you’re like iron—white iron,” whined the other. “Any woman with a heart—” and the weak tears came in her eyes.
“No, I have no heart to be touched by you,” answered the girl. “You had a chance to live a decent life, and you wouldn’t take it. You had an honest man to trust 333 you and take care of you, and you paid him with deceit. Don’t expect pity from me; but write that order.”
She tried to write but could not, and the girl took the pencil.
“I will write it, and you can sign it,” she said; “that will do as well.”
Thus it was accomplished, and the woman was again laid lower in the bed.
“You are terrible hard on—on folks that ain’t just square,” she said. “You needn’t be so proud; you ain’t dead yet yourself. You don’t know what may happen to you.”
“I know,” said the girl, coldly, “that if I ever brought children into the world, to be thrown on strangers’ hands and brought up in the streets to live your sort of life, I would expect a very practical sort of hell prepared for me. Have you anything more to tell me? I’m going.”
“Oh—h! I wish you hadn’t said that about hell. I’m dreadful afraid of hell,” moaned the woman.
“Yes,” said the girl; “you ought to be.”
“How hard you are! And the doctor said I would die to-night.”