Hatless, and in a shabby dress, with her short, dark, curly hair parted on the side, she looked even younger than when I had first seen her, but about her twisting mouth were lines that hardened it, and in her opalescent eyes, which now shot flame and fire and now paled with weariness, I saw that which made me know in bitter knowledge she was old and could never again be young.  Youth and its rights for her were gone beyond returning.

She would not sit down; grew rigid when I tried to make her.  “You want to see me?” She looked from me to Mrs. Mundy and back again to me.  “What do you want to see me about?  Why did you want me to come here?”

“We want to talk to you, to see what is best for you to do.”  I spoke haltingly.  It was difficult to speak at all with her eyes upon me.  They were strange eyes for a girl of eighteen.

“Best for me to do?” She laughed witheringly and turned from the fire, her hands twisting in nervous movements.  “There are only two things ahead of me.  Death—­or worse.  Which would you advise me—­to do?”

Without waiting for answer the slight shoulders straightened and went back.  Scorn, hate, bitterness were in her unconscious pose, and from her eyes came fire.  “If you sent for me to preach you can quit before you start.  There ain’t anything you can do for me.  I’m done for.  What do people like you care what becomes of girls like us?  Maybe we send ourselves to hell, but you see to it that we stay there.  You’re good at your job all right.  I hate you—­you good women!  Hate you!”

I heard Mrs. Mundy’s indrawn breath, saw her quick glance of shock and distress, then I went over to Etta.  She was trembling with hot emotion long repressed, and, as one at bay, she drew back, reckless, defiant, and breathing unsteadily.

“I do not wonder that you hate us.  I am sorry—­so sorry for you, Etta.”

For a full minute she stared at me as if she had not heard aright and the dull color in her face deepened into crimson, then with a spring she was at the door, her face buried in her arms.  Leaning heavily against it, she made convulsive effort to keep back sound.

“Sorry—­oh, my God!” In a heap she crumpled on the floor, her face still hidden in her hands.  “I did not know—­in all the world—­anybody was sorry.  You can’t be sorry—­I’m a—­”

I motioned Mrs. Mundy to go out.  “Leave her with me,” I said.  “Come back presently, but leave her awhile with me.”

Going over to the window, I stood beside it until the choking sobs grew fainter and fainter, and then, turning away, I drew two chairs close to the fire and told Etta to come and sit by me.  For a while neither of us spoke, and when at last she tried to speak it was difficult to hear her.