"Cover the face, Vera," she says, coldly. "It is not pleasant to look at the dead."
"Not when we have wronged them," the girl murmurs, almost inaudibly, and with deep bitterness.
"What is that you are saying?" demands Mrs. Cleveland, sharply. "'Not when we have wronged them,' eh? Beware, girl, how you let that sharp tongue of yours run on. You may chance to see the inside of the alms-house!"
But Vera, biting her lips fiercely, in mute shame at that angry slip of the tongue in presence of the dead, makes no answer. Dropping the white sheet back over the sealed lips that cannot open to defend her child, she buries her face in the pillow, trembling all over with indignation and grief.
Mrs. Cleveland stands contemplating her a moment with a look of contemptuous scorn on her high, Roman features, then, to Vera's amazement, she exclaims:
"One of the servants told me that Leslie Noble brought a preacher in here last night. Was it to administer the sacrament to the dying?"
No answer from Vera, whose face remains buried in the pillow.
"Speak!" Mrs. Cleveland commands, coming a step nearer, "did he come to administer the consolations of religion to the dying?"
"No," Vera answers, lifting her white face a moment, and looking steadily into her enemy's questioning eyes. "No."
"No," Mrs. Cleveland echoes, with a look of alarm. "What then, girl, what then?"