“No, I do not know so,” answered Carrie; “but I know I wouldn’t talk about my mother as you do about yours for anything.”

“Bless your heart,” said Lenora, “haven’t you sense enough to see that there is a great difference between Mrs. Hamilton first, and Mrs. Hamilton second?  Now, I’m not naturally bad, and if I had been the daughter of Mrs. Hamilton first instead of Widow Carter’s young one, why, I should have been as good as you—­no, not as good as you, for you don’t know enough to be bad—­but as good as Mag, who, in my opinion, has the right kind of goodness, for all I used to hate her so.”

“Hate Margaret!” said Carrie, opening her eyes to their utmost extent.  “What did you hate Margaret for?”

“Because I didn’t know her, I suppose,” returned Lenora; “for now I like her well enough—­not quite as well as I do you, perhaps; and yet, when I see you bear mother’s abuse so meekly, I positively hate you for a minute, and ache to box your ears; but when Mag squares up to her, shuts her in the china closet, and all that, I want to put my arms right round neck.”

“Why, don’t you like your mother?” asked Carrie, and Lenora replied: 

“Of course I do; but I know what she is and I know she isn’t what she sometimes seems.  Why, she’d be anything to suit the circumstances.  She wanted your father, and she assumed the character most likely to secure him; for, between you and me, he isn’t very smart.”

“What did she marry him for, then?” asked Carrie.

“Marry him!  I hope you don’t for a moment suppose she married him!”

“Why, Lenora, ain’t they married? I thought they were.  Oh, dreadful!” and Carrie started to her feet, while the perspiration stood thickly on her forehead.

Lenora screamed with delight, saying, “You certainly have the softest brain I ever saw.  Of course the minister went through with the ceremony; but it was not your father that mother wanted; it was his house—­his money—­his horses—­his servants, and his name.  Now, maybe in your simplicity you have thought that mother came here out of kindness to the motherless children; but I tell you she would be better satisfied if neither of you had ever been born.  I suppose it is wicked in me to say so, but I think she makes me worse than I would otherwise be; for I am not naturally so bad, and I like people much better than I pretend to.  Anyway, I like you, and love little Willie, and always have, since the first time I saw him.  Your mother lay in her coffin, and Willie stood by her, caressing her cold cheek, and saying, ’Wake up, mamma, it’s Willie; don’t you know Willie?  I took him in my arms, and vowed to love and shield him from the coming evil; for I knew then, as well as I do now, that what has happened would happen.  Mag wasn’t there; she didn’t see me.  If she had, she might have liked me better; now she thinks there is no good in me; and if, when you die, I should feel like shedding tears, and perhaps I shall, it would be just like her to wonder ’what business I had to cry—­it was none of my funeral!’”