The Maria, standing before the beautiful woman swaying gently, with her eyes fixed upon the pink and gold of the vase, spoke out for the first time what was in her heart of hearts with regard to her.

“You are a wicked woman,” said she; “that is what you are.  I don’t know as you can help being wicked.  I guess you were made wicked; but you are a wicked woman.  Your mouth smiles, but your heart never does.  You act now as if you were sorry,” said she, “but you are not sorry, the way my mother would have been sorry if she had lost me, the way she would have been sorry if Evelyn had been her little girl instead of yours.  You are a wicked woman.  I have always known it, but I have never told you so before.  Now I am going to tell you.  Your own child is lost, you let her be lost.  You didn’t look out for her.  Yes, your own child is lost, and you sit there and rock!”

Ida for a moment made no reply.  The other women, and Gladys and Wollaston in the vestibule, listened with horror.

“You have had beefsteak and fried potatoes cooked, too,” continued Maria, sniffing, “and you have eaten them.  You have been eating beefsteak and fried potatoes when your own child was lost and you did not know where she was!” It might have been ridiculous, this last accusation in the thin, sweet, childish voice, but it was not.  It was even more terrible than anything else.

Ida turned at last.  “I hate you,” she said slowly.  “I have always hated you.  You have hated me ever since I came into this house,” she said, “though I have done more than your own mother ever did for you.”

“You have not!” cried Maria.  “You have got nice clothes for me, but my own mother loved me.  What are nice clothes to love?  You have not even loved Evelyn.  You have only got her nice clothes.  You have never loved her.  Poor papa and I were the only ones that loved her.  You never even loved poor papa.  You saw to it that he had things to eat, but you never loved him.  You are not made right.  All the love in your heart is for your own self.  You are turned the wrong way.  I don’t know as you can help it, but you are a dreadful woman.  You are wicked.  You never loved the baby, and now you have let her be lost.  She is my own little sister, and papa’s child, a great deal more than she is anything to you.  Where is she?” Maria’s voice rang wild.  Her face was blazing.  She had an abnormal expression in her blue eyes fixed upon her step-mother.

Ida, after her one outburst, gazed upon her with a sort of fear as well as repulsion.  She again turned to the Tiffany vase.

Mrs. White, sobbing aloud like a child, again put her arms around Maria.

“Come, come,” she said soothingly, “you poor child, I know how you feel, but you mustn’t talk so, you mustn’t, dear!  You have no right to judge.  You don’t know how your mother feels.”

“I know how She doesn’t feel!” Maria burst out, “and She isn’t my mother.  My mother loves me more way off in heaven than that woman loves Her own child on earth.  She doesn’t feel.  She just rocks, and thinks how She looks.  I hate Her!  Let me go!” With that Maria was out of the room, and ran violently up-stairs.