Mrs. de Vere, in her fury of wrath, shook her jeweled fist threateningly in the child’s face, and the baby shrunk back with a startled cry.
“Camille!” cried her husband, sternly. He caught back her menacing hand. “Would you be cruel enough to strike that innocent baby?”
She laughed insanely.
“Yes, unless you take her away, and at once!” she answered, struggling to free herself.
But he held her firmly.
“You are mad!” he cried, hotly. “You exhaust my patience by your words and manners, which are alike disgraceful. I will no longer bear your exactions. The child shall remain here until her friends can be found. You force me to remind you that this house at least is mine—all that was left me when the war deprived me of my father, the brave soldier, who died for the South, and all our wealth. Here, at least, I am master, and here my poor little protégée shall find shelter!”
She was so dazed with his defiance that for a moment she could not speak, only writhe impotently under the firm but gentle grasp in which he held her wrist, while a low, hissing sound issued from her lips.
Little Sweetheart, who had been watching them in doubt and terror, now slipped down from the sofa, and running to her friend, clasped his leg tightly with her little arms, crying out through frightened tears:
“Oh, p’ease, p’ease, don’t hurt the yady! don’t make her ky!”
“Little angel!” he cried, and released the wrist he was holding.