“’Twould have been all right if he’d let it stop there,” replied Mrs. Putnam.  “Who put it into his head that there was no law agin a man marryin’ his adopted sister?  You wuz a woman grown of eighteen, and he wuz only a young boy of sixteen, and you made him love yer and turn agin his mother, and then we had ter send him away from home ter keep yer apart, and then you ran after him, and then he died, and it broke my heart.  You wuz the cause of it, but for yer he would be livin’ now, a comfort to his poor old mother.  I hated yer then for what yer did.  Ev’ry time I look at yer I think of the happiness you stole from me, an’ I hate yer wusser’n ever.”

“Oh, mother, mother!” sobbed Lindy.

“I’m not your mother,” screamed Mrs. Putnam.  “I s’pose you must have had one, but you’ll never know who she wuz; she didn’t care nuthin’ fer yer, for she left yer in the road, and Silas was fool enough to pick yer up and bring yer home.  What yer right name is nobody knows, and mebbe yer ain’t got none.”

At this taunt Lindy arose to her feet and looked defiantly at Mrs. Putnam.  “You are not telling the truth, Mrs. Putnam,” said the girl; “you know who my parents were, but you will not tell me.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Putnam, “git mad and show yer temper; that’s better than sheddin’ crocodile’s tears, as yer’ve been doin’; yer’ve been a curse to me from the day I fust set eyes on yer.  I’ve said I hate yer, and I do, an’ I’ll never forgive yer fer what yer’ve done to me.”

Lindy saw that words were useless.  Perhaps Mrs. Putnam might, recover, and if she did not provoke her too far she might relent some day and tell her what she knew about her parents; so she walked to the door and opened it.  Then she turned and said, “Good-by, Mrs. Putnam, I truly hope that you will recover.”

“Wall, I sha’n’t,” said Mrs. Putnam.  “I’m goin’ to die, I want ter die.  I want ter see Jones; I want ter talk ter him; I want ter tell him how much I loved him—­how much I’ve suffered through yer.  I’m goin’ ter tell him how I’ve hated yer and what fer, and when I git through talkin’ to him, I’ll guarantee he’ll be my way o’ thinkin’.”

As the old woman said this, with an almost superhuman effort she raised herself to a sitting posture, pointed her finger at Lindy, and gave utterances to a wild, hysterical laugh that almost froze the blood in the poor girl’s veins.

Lindy slammed the door behind her, rushed to her own room, locked the door, and threw herself face downward upon the bed.  Should she ever forget those last fearful words, that vengeful face, that taunting finger, or that mocking laugh?

Samanthy took Alice up to Mrs. Putnam’s room about eight o’clock.  Alice knelt by the bedside.  She could not see the old lady’s face, but she took her withered hands in hers, and caressed them lovingly, saying, “Aunt Heppy, I am sorry you are so sick.  Have you had the doctor?”