"Go away!" cried the mother. "Don't you dare to touch me! Don't you dare yet to pollute me! Oh! A child o' mine to do this!"
She fell into another paroxysm of grief, and Mary sank to her knees and took one of the gnarled hands between her own hands.
"Listen, mom," she said; "I'll tell you all about it, an' then you'll know."
She did tell her, as much as she dared; but Mrs. Denbigh only half understood. The elder woman's life had been cast in a mold; it had long since hardened into a destined shape, and no sympathy on her own part, no explanations on the part of another, could alter her. Dire necessity she had often known, but she had not known it amid surroundings where the sufferer's only course was that which alone had been possible for Mary. If she softened, it was not because she comprehended, but because Mary was her child.
"Don't tell me no more," she said at last. "You could 'a' gone to work."
"I tried that, an' nobody'd have me."
"You could 'a' gone to some church-folk."
"I did, but they couldn't get me a job."
"You could 'a' gone to some institution a'ready."
"How'd I have lived after I come out?"