Minny had fainted.
Springing to a water-pipe, Della filled a basin, and drawing the girl tenderly upon her breast, rocked her gently, back and forth, as she bathed the blue-veined temples with the cooling fluid.
Still pale with anger, Mr. Delancey stood looking on.
"Poor child, poor Minny!" sobbed Della, as the tears rained down her cheeks; "all this you have suffered for me—poor thing, poor thing!"
Suddenly lifting her eyes, Della confronted her father.
"Not another night!" she exclaimed bitterly, "shall Minny stay beneath your roof. She is your own flesh and blood, papa; you know she is. You might as well have whipped me as to whip her. Oh! papa, that you should use your own child thus!"
Mr. Delancey started forward.
"Who has dared to tell you such a tale as this!—who has presumed to whisper such a falsehood in your ear?"
"It is no falsehood, papa; it is truth, all truth—would it were not! It requires no talking to see it. Has she not
your look, your spirit, much of your pride? But none of your cruelty. No, no, poor Minny, you have indeed been a sister to me. Look, papa, at this poor bleeding back, see how this dress is dyed with blood; blood which you cursed her with, blood which you have drawn forth again with the lash! The lash—think of it; and she your own daughter!"