Then Wollaston spoke. “No, we do not want to get married,” he said, positively. Then he said to Gladys, “I wish you would mind your own business.”
But he had to cope with the revival of a wonderful feminine wit of a fine old race in Gladys. “I should think you would be plum ashamed of yourself,” she said, severely, “after you have got that poor girl in here; and if she stays and you ain't married, she'll git talked about.”
The clergyman approached Wollaston and Maria. Maria had begun to cry. She was trembling from head to foot with fear and confusion. Wollaston looked sulky and angry.
“Is that true—did you induce this girl to come to New York to be married?” he inquired, and his own boyish voice took on severe tones. He was very strong in moral reform.
“No, I did not,” replied Wollaston.
“He did,” said Gladys. “She'll get talked about if she ain't, too, and the last train has went, and we've got to stay in New York all night.”
“Where do you come from?” inquired the young clergyman, and his tone was more severe still.
“From Edgham, New Jersey,” replied Gladys.
“Who are you?” inquired the clergyman.
“I ain't no account,” replied Gladys. “All our folks git talked about, but she's different.”