“Call me what you please, only tone down that voice of yours; it is sharper than the east wind.”

I heard her beating a tattoo on Veronica’s door next.  She had been taught to be ceremonious with her, at least.  No reply was made, and she came to my door again.  “I expect Miss Veronica has gone to see poor folks; it is a way she has,” and spitefully closed it.

After tea mother came up to inquire the reason of my seclusion.  My excuse of fatigue she readily accepted, for she thought I still looked ill.  I had changed so much, she said, it made her heart ache to look at me.  When I could speak of the accident at Rosville, would I tell her all?  And would I describe my life there; what friends I had made; would they visit me?  She hoped so.  And Mr. Somers, who made them so hurried a visit, would he come?  She liked him.  While she talked, she kept a pitying but resolute eye upon me.

“Dear mother, I never can tell you all, as you wish.  It is hard enough for me to bear my thoughts, without the additional one that my feelings are understood and speculated upon.  If I should tell you, the barrier between me and self-control would give way.  You will see Alice Morgeson, and if she chooses she can tell you what my life was in her house.  She knows it well.”

“Cassandra, what does your bitter face and voice mean?”

“I mean, mother, all your woman’s heart might guess, if you were not so pure, so single-hearted.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yes.”

“Then I understand the riddle you have been, one to bring a curse.”

“There is nothing to curse, mother; our experiences are not foretold by law.  We may be righteous by rule, we do not sin that way.  There was no beginning, no end, to mine.”

“Should women curse themselves, then, for giving birth to daughters?”

“Wait, mother; what is bad this year may be good the next.  You blame yourself, because you believe your ignorance has brought me into danger.  Wait, mother.”

“You are beyond me; everything is beyond.”

“I will be a good girl.  Kiss me, mother.  I have been unworthy of you.  When have I ever done anything for you?  If you hadn’t been my mother, I dare say we might have helped each other, my friendship and sympathy have sustained you.  As it is, I have behaved as all young animals behave to their mothers.  One thing you may be sure of.  The doubt you feel is needless.  You must neither pray nor weep over me.  Have I agitated you?”

“My heart will flutter too much, anyway.  Oh, Cassy, Cassy, why are you such a girl?  Why will you be so awfully headstrong?” But she hugged and kissed me.  As I felt the irregular beating of her heart, a pain smote me.  What if she should not live long?  Was I not a wicked fool to lacerate myself with an intangible trouble—­the reflex of selfish emotions?

CHAPTER XXIII.