“Why, what is the matter?” asked George Ramsey, still in a puzzled, amused voice.
Maria spoke out. “That poor little Jessy Ramsey,” said she, “and she is the prettiest and brightest scholar I have, too, came to school to-day without a single stitch of clothing under her dress. It is a wonder she didn't die. I don't know but she will die, and if she does it will be your fault.”
George Ramsey's face suddenly sobered; his mother's flushed. She looked at him, then at Maria, almost with fright. She felt really afraid of this forcible girl, who was so very angry and so very pretty in her anger. Maria had never looked prettier than she did then, with her cheeks burning and her blue eyes flashing with indignation and defiance.
“That is terrible, such a day as this,” said George Ramsey.
“Yes; I had no idea they were quite so badly off,” murmured his mother.
“You ought to have had some idea,” flashed out Maria.
“We had not, Miss Edgham,” said George, gently. “You must remember how very distant the relationship is. I believe it begins with the fourth generation from myself. And there are other reasons—”
“There ought not to be other reasons,” Maria said.
Mrs. Ramsey looked with wonder and something like terror and aversion at this pretty, violent girl, who was espousing so vehemently, not to say rudely, the cause of the distant relatives of her husband's family. The son, however, continued to smile amusedly at Maria.
“Won't you sit down, Miss Edgham?” he said.