“She doesn’t stop to think one minute; she’s just like her father about that,” said Aunt Maria.

Henry Stillman said nothing.  He took up his paper, which he had been reading when Maria and his sister entered.

Meantime, Maria was being ushered into the Ramsey house by a maid who wore a white cap.  The first thing which she noticed as she entered the house was a strong fragrance of flowers.  That redoubled her indignation.

“These Ramseys can buy flowers in midwinter,” she thought, “while their own flesh and blood go almost naked.”

She entered the room in which the flowers were, a great bunch of pink carnations in a tall, green vase.  The room was charming.  It was not only luxurious, but gave evidences of superior qualities in its owners.  It was empty when Maria entered, but soon Mrs. Ramsey and her son came in.  Maria recognized with a start her old acquaintance, or rather she did not recognize him.  She would not have known him at all had she not seen him in his home.  She had not seen him before, for he had been away ever since she had come to Amity.  He had been West on business for his bank.  Now he at once stepped forward and spoke to her.

“You are my old friend, Miss Edgham, I think,” he said.  “Allow me to present my mother.”

Maria bowed perforce before the very gentle little lady in a soft lavender cashmere, with her neck swathed in laces, but she did not accept the offered seat, and she utterly disregarded the glance of astonishment which both mother and son gave at her uncovered shoulders and head.  Maria’s impetuosity had come to her from two sides.  When it was in flood, so to speak, nothing could stop it.

“No, thank you, I can’t sit down,” she said.  “I came on an errand.  You are related, I believe, to the other Ramseys.  The children go to my school.  There are Mamie and Franky and Jessy.”

“We are very distantly related, and, on the whole, proud of the distance rather than the relationship,” said George Ramsey, with a laugh.

Then Maria turned fiercely upon him.  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said she.

The young man stared at her.

Maria persisted.  “Yes, you ought,” she said.  “I don’t care how distant the relationship is, the same blood is in your veins, and you bear the same name.”

“Why, what is the matter?” asked George Ramsey, still in a puzzled, amused voice.

Maria spoke out.  “That poor little Jessy Ramsey,” said she, “and she is the prettiest and brightest scholar I have, too, came to school to-day without a single stitch of clothing under her dress.  It is a wonder she didn’t die.  I don’t know but she will die, and if she does it will be your fault.”

George Ramsey’s face suddenly sobered; his mother’s flushed.  She looked at him, then at Maria, almost with fright.  She felt really afraid of this forcible girl, who was so very angry and so very pretty in her anger.  Maria had never looked prettier than she did then, with her cheeks burning and her blue eyes flashing with indignation and defiance.