Soon after Flora followed them there was a series of arduous cries, apparently maintained more from a childish sense of the fitness of things than from any actual stress of pain.  They soon ceased.

“She ain’t half whipped ’em,” Mrs. Lowe, who was listening downstairs, said to herself.

The lawyer was in his office; he had intrenched himself there as soon as possible, covering his retreat with the departure of his guests.

Mrs. Field and Lois, removed from it all the distance of tragedy from comedy, were walking up the street to the Maxwell house.  Mrs. Field stalked ahead with her resolute stiffness; Lois followed after her, keeping always several paces behind.  No matter how often Mrs. Field, sternly conscious of it, slackened her own pace, Lois never gained upon her.

When they reached the gate at the entrance of the Maxwell grounds, and Mrs. Field stopped, Lois spoke up.

“What place is this?” said she, in a defiantly timorous voice.

“The Maxwell house,” replied her mother, shortly, turning up the walk.

“Are you going in here?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well, I ain’t going in one step.”

Mrs. Field turned and faced her.  “Lois,” said she, “if you want to go away an’ desert the mother that’s showin’ herself willin’ to die for you, you can.”

Lois said not another word.  She turned in at the gate, with her eyes fixed upon her mother’s face.

“I’ll tell you about it when we get up to the house,” said her mother, with appealing conciliation.

Lois slunk mutely behind her again.  Her eyes were full of the impulse of flight when she watched her mother unlock the house door, but she followed her in.

Her mother led the way into the sitting-room.  “Sit down,” said she.

And Lois sat down in the nearest chair.  She never took her eyes off her mother.

Mrs. Field took off her bonnet and shawl.  She folded the shawl carefully in the creases, and laid it on the table.  She pulled up a curtain.  Then she turned, and confronted steadily her daughter’s eyes.  The whole house to her was full of the clamor of their questioning.  “Now, Lois,” said Mrs. Field, “I’m goin’ to tell you about this.  I s’pose you think it’s funny.”

“I don’t know what to think of it,” said Lois, in a dry voice.

“I don’t s’pose you do.  Well, I’m goin’ to tell you.  You know, I s’pose, that Mr. Tuxbury took me for your aunt Esther.  You heard him call me Mis’ Maxwell?”

Lois nodded; her dilated eyes never wavered from her mother’s face.

“I s’pose you heard what he was sayin’ to me when you come in.  Lois, I didn’t tell him I was your aunt Esther.  The minute I come in, he took me for her, an’ Mis’ Henry Maxwell come into his office, an’ she did, and so did Mr. Tuxbury’s sister.  I wa’n’t goin’ to tell them I wa’n’t her.”

The impulse of flight in Lois’ watchful eyes became so strong that it seemed almost to communicate to her muscles.  With her face still turned toward her mother, she appeared to be fleeing from her.