Molly’s blushes grew hotter still, but they were those of anger now, and her black eyes blazed as she retorted:
“Well, if I have nothing but rags, what more do I need in this old tomb of a place where no one ever comes from week’s end to week’s end? I know you’ll be mad, Aunt Thalia, but if you kill me for it, I’ll tell the truth at once! I sent that money to my sister!”
Mrs. Barry’s face grew purple with wrath. She stamped furiously upon the carpeted floor.
“Never say that word again!” she burst out fiercely. “You have no sister.”
“My step-sister, then, Aunt Thalia,” amended Molly.
A glance of concentrated scorn and anger shone on her through the glasses of Mrs. Barry.
“Louise Barry, I thought you had more pride than to claim that girl—the daughter of the low-lived actress, who wheedled your father into marrying her, his second wife—your sister! The connection is a disgrace to you.”
“Hush, Aunt Thalia. You must not talk so to me!” said the girl, sharply. She had grown quite pale, and her slender little hands were clinched tightly together. She bit her red lips fiercely, to keep back burning words that had rushed to their portals.
Mrs. Barry snorted scornfully.
“You take her part, eh? that low-born brat that her dying mother saddled on your aunt Lucy. Louise Barry, I’m ashamed of you, disappointed in you. I wish now that I had taken you here to live when your father died, then Lucy Everett would have had to send Molly Trueheart to the poor-house instead of supporting her on the money I have sent every year to you.”