She drew away from it.—"Money!" She spoke almost with horror.
"Yes, Aurora, honest money. Take it and see how far 't will go towards saving prosecution for him."
"You mean—," she hesitated; her dry eyes bored into his that dropped before her unwavering gaze, "—you mean you're giving your hard-earned wages to me to help save my boy?"
"Yes, and glad to give them—if you knew how glad, Aurora—"
She covered her face with her hands. Octavius took her by the arm and drew her to a chair.
"Sit down," he said gently; "you're all worn out."
She obeyed him passively, still keeping her hands before her face. But no sooner was she seated than she began to rock uneasily back and forth, moaning to herself, till suddenly the long-dried fount was opened up; the merciful blessing of tears found vent. She shook with uncontrollable sobbing; she wept for the first time since Champney's flight, and the tears eased her brain for the time of its living nightmare.
Octavius waited for her weeping to spend itself. His heart was wrung with pity, but he was thankful for every tear she shed; his gratefulness, however, found a curious inner expression.
"Damn her—damn her—damn her—" he kept saying over and over to himself, and the mere repetition seemed to ease him of his over-powering surcharge of pity. But it was Almeda Champney he had in mind, and, after all, his unuttered inner curses were only a prayer for help, read backwards.
At last, Aurora Googe lifted her face from her hands and looked at Octavius Buzzby. He reddened and rose to go.