“Well,” said the Judge, in a puzzled voice, “you are so extreme that I will have to qualify your statement.”
“It’s true,” she said, grimly, “you ’spises me. That makes me mad, ’cause I know the Lord made us both. That my mother has taught me, an’ I believe her. The Lord loves me as much as he loves you, but that don’t satisfy me. I’m goin’ to make you love me, too.”
The Judge shuddered, despite himself. This little sharp-voiced, bad-tempered, ambitious, plain-featured specimen of humanity was extremely repellent to him. It was really an act of Christian charity on his part to sit and listen to her.
But he must subdue his dislike. The poor little creature was unhappy. If he sent her away uncomforted and unaided he would have a sleepless night. Happily or unhappily for himself, he had so humored his conscience through life that he was obliged slavishly to obey its dictates or suffer the consequences.
Therefore he said, kindly, “What other object have you in becoming a lady besides that of making men stand round?”
“I wants to help my mother,” she said, solemnly, “an’ get her out of River Street. I wants a little home out among the fields for her where the ’lectrics run past an’ she can come in town fer her shoppin’. She’s a faithful mother, sir; she’s brought us up good.”
The Judge’s eyes filled with tears. Poor little, weak, frail creature, and yet not weak, for a noble spirit animated her sickly body.
“Now I am with you, my girl,” he exclaimed. “Now I will help you, for this aspiration is noble.”
The touch of sympathy caused a smile to break over her face. “An’ the children, sir,” she said, “could play. There’s grass out there where they could play. There aint no grass on River Street.”
“Don’t they play in the park that Mrs. Everest got for the River Street children?”