“Keep her!”
“Keep her from want, I mean.”
“But, child, she has been—you don’t know what she has been,” gravely rebuked Mrs. Coney.
“I think I do, mother.”
“She is a poor outcast, Jane; with neither home to go to, nor friends to look upon her.”
Jane burst into tears: they had been hardly kept down since she had begun to speak.
“Just so, mother. But what was I yesterday? If Robert had been tried for his life, and condemned, I should have felt like an outcast; perhaps been looked upon as no better than one by the world.”
“Goodness, Jane, I wish you’d exercise your common sense,” cried Mrs. Coney, losing patience. “I tell you she is an outcast, and has forfeited home and friends. She has been a great sinner.”
“Mother, if she had a home and friends, there would be no need to succour her. As to sin—perhaps we can save her from that for the future. My gratitude for the mercy shown to me is such that I feel as if I could take her to my bosom; it seems to my mind that I ought to do something for her, that she has been thrown in my way that I should do it. Mother, it is my last petition to you: see after her a little for me until we come back again.”