The girl stood looking at her with a heaving breast and eyes dilated with anger. When her aunt paused the girlish head was lifted proudly, and the young voice trembling with passion, answered sharply:
“Molly Trueheart’s mother, the low-lived actress, as you call her, left her daughter a legacy, small, but sufficient to pay for her board and clothing. She would not have to go to the poor-house, even if Aunt Lucy turned her out-of-doors.”
“Oh, indeed; I did not know she was an heiress. I thought she was a pauper. Why did you send her the money then, since she did not need it?” sharply.
“I—I owed it to her, Aunt Thalia,” said the girl with a defiant air.
“So then the allowance I have made you every year was not sufficient, and you had to borrow from that creature?”
“Ye-es, madame,” in a stifled tone.
“Very well, you shall never have that humiliation henceforth. It is not for Philip Barry’s daughter and my heiress to undergo such straits. Henceforth your home will be at Ferndale, and I’ll try to cure you of all fancy for your low-born connection. I’ll write to your aunt Lucy tonight and tell her so.”
“I—I won’t stay!” stormed the girl, in sudden passionate defiance and terror commingled. Her black eyes blazed as she fixed them on Mrs. Barry’s face.
The old lady gazed at her silently a moment as if almost paralyzed by astonishment.
“Why, you pert little baggage!” she muttered, then she made a dart toward the girl and clutched her arm with fingers that seemed strong as iron. Molly struggled wildly to get away, but Mrs. Barry held her tightly.