"And your hands! You never kept them like Amelia's, but now—why, they might be a day-laborer's."
"They are," said Jean.
But Mrs. Fanshaw's interest had fluttered elsewhere.
"I can't be too thankful that I spared Amelia this ordeal," she went on. "Amelia was anxious to come. She said she felt it was her duty, but I refused. She is so sensitive she could not have borne it. To see her own sister in such clothes and in such surroundings would have made an indelible impression."
Jean now had herself only too well in hand.
"I dare say the refuge might tarnish Amelia's girlish bloom," she retorted dryly. "I hope you'll feel no bad effects yourself, mother."
"I'm positive I shall," replied Mrs. Fanshaw, seriously. "My nerves are in a state already. But let that pass. Whatever the cost, I should have come long ago if your behavior had been always what it should. I could not come while you hardened your heart against God's will. Your stubbornness in the beginning—they wrote me fully, Jean; your unwomanly attempt to run away; that shocking riot, all showed—"
"That's past, mother."
"Past, yes; but not forgotten. Shawnee Springs never forgets anything. Your escape was in the papers. I wrote you all that."
"They never let me know. Not in the home papers, the county papers?"