Sophy's heart was softened by her mother's passionate appeal. Heartily ashamed of herself, she approached nearer to her weeping sister.
"Mary," she faltered, in a tone of deep self-reproach, "I did not mean to vex you. I know that you are better than me, and you must not take so to heart my wild words; I am miserable and unhappy; I do not always know what I say."
The eyes of the sisters met; Sophy flung her arms about Mary's neck and kissed her.
"You forgive me, Mary?"
The hunchback smiled through her tears—and such a smile, so eloquent, so full of love and grateful affection, that Sophy felt that she was more than forgiven.
"Why are you unhappy, Sophy?" asked Mrs. Grimshawe, seizing the favourable moment to make a more lasting impression on her mind.
"Because we are so poor."
"We have endured many evils worse than poverty."
"None, none. That one word comprises them all. To be hungry, shabby, despised; and you wonder that my soul rebels against it?"
"Are not unkind words and reproaches more hard to bear?"