Mary raised and spread her arms in quick petitioning, and then, in that stranger, Mrs. Denbigh recognized her child.
"You?" she cried.
She dashed her damp hands to her checkered apron; she stepped toward her daughter with her own arms wide. She bent to kiss her—and she drew as suddenly away.
"There's liquor on your breath!" she gasped.
"I know," said Mary, her voice low and trembling. "I—I ain't been well, mom."
The kiss was given, but less abandonedly than it had promised, and, as the mother drew away, her keen eyes searched the girl from face to feet. Over the multitude of maternal questions there rose the three for which Mary was least prepared.
"Mary—what is it? Where is he? Didn't he treat you right?"
They caught the girl at her weakest point.
"Who?" she asked.
"Who?"—Mrs. Denbigh's eyes grew stern again.—"Who? You needn't say no more than that still! I ought to have knowed when I seen you. Nobody could look at you yet and not know. Why, you're—you're old! Your things are worn out. You——" her tone increased to loud accusations. "Where did you get them clothes?"