"But does it do any good?" Mrs. Boyce repeated to herself as she went back to the drawing-room. "Sympathy! who was ever yet fed, warmed, comforted by sympathy? Marcella robs that woman of the only thing that the human being should want at such a moment—solitude. Why should we force on the poor what to us would be an outrage?"
Meanwhile Marcella battled through the wind and rain, thankful that the warm spring burst was over, and that the skies no longer mocked this horror which was beneath them.
At the entrance to the village she stopped, and took the basket from the little maid.
"Now, Ruth, you can go home. Run quick, it is so dark, Ruth!"
"Yes, miss."
The young country girl trembled. Miss Boyce's tragic passion in this matter had to some extent infected the whole household in which she lived.
"Ruth, when you say your prayers to-night, pray God to comfort the poor,—and to punish the cruel!"
"Yes, miss," said the girl, timidly, and ready to cry. The lantern she held flashed its light on Miss Boyce's white face and tall form. Till her mistress turned away she did not dare to move; that dark eye, so wide, full, and living, roused in her a kind of terror.
On the steps of the cottage Marcella paused. She heard voices inside—or rather the rector's voice reading.
A thought of scorn rose in her heart. "How long will the poor endure this religion—this make-believe—which preaches patience, patience! when it ought to be urging war?"