“Not to-day?” he said, crestfallen.
“No. Haven't you heard about Mam' Linda's awful trouble?”
“Oh, that is her son!” Sanders said. “I heard something of it at the hotel. I see. She really must be troubled.”
“It is a wonder it hasn't killed her,” Helen answered. “I have never seen a human being under such frightful torture.”
“And can nothing be done?” Sanders asked. “I'd really like to be of use—to help, you know, in some way.”
“There is nothing to be done—nothing that can be done,” Helen said. “She knows that, and is simply waiting for the end.”
“It's too bad,” Sanders remarked, awkwardly. “Might I go to see her?”
“I think you'd better not,” said the girl. “I don't believe she would care to see any but very old friends. I used to think I could comfort her, but even I fail now. She is insensible to anything but that one haunting horror. She has tried a dozen times to go over to the mountains, but my father and Uncle Lewis have prevented it. That mob, angry as they are, might really kill her, for she would fight for her young like a tigress, and people wrought up like those are mad enough to do anything.”
“And some people think the negro may not really be guilty, do they not?” Sanders asked.
“I am sure he is not,” Helen sighed. “I feel it; I know it.”