“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” demanded Mrs. Forest, catching sight of the parcel containing the gloves.

Nancy did not answer; she was looking at the round table, which was covered with the shining brass ornaments which had been removed from the chimney-piece in the search for the missing coin.  There they were—­candlesticks, pans, snuffer-tray, and beer-warmer, articles she remembered from earliest childhood as never in use, and always highly polished.  Now as the firelight flickered upon them they seemed to be looking at the distracted girl with countless fiery eyes which twinkled in malice.  Nancy could not take her eyes from these other eyes, she could not think for the moment.  She vaguely knew that her mother took away her parcel, and presently Mrs. Forest’s rasping voice recalled her from her stupefied reverie.

“So you spent it in gloves, did you?  Six-buttoned ones, too—!  Oh, you ungrateful, selfish, wasteful girl.”

“Mother, mother,” wailed Nancy, taking hold of Mrs. Forest’s gown with one hand convulsively, while she pressed the other to her brow, where her wavy locks of hair lay all damp and ruffled.  “You should believe—­you must believe me—­Miss Michin gave me the gloves—­I have never seen your money—­oh, mother, I couldn’t have touched it—­I couldn’t.”

“Don’t add lies to it,” broke out Mrs. Forest in a greater passion than ever.

Than this last remark, nothing could have easily been more unjust.  Nancy had always been a very truthful child.

“If you can no longer trust me, it is perhaps better for me—­to—­to go away,” said Nancy, softly.

“Yes—­go—­go now,” replied her mother, who had arrived at that stage of rage when people use words little heeding their meaning.

Nancy buttoned her little jacket once more, and tied a silk handkerchief round her neck, and passed out at the door in a wild, hurried fashion.

Mrs. Forest looked at the door and smiled.  “She’ll none go,” she said to herself; “where could she go to?”

But Nancy did not resemble her mother in hasty moods, she was rather the subject of permanent impressions.  Her mother’s conduct had wounded her to the quick.  She could no longer endure it, she thought.  Hitherto, her father’s love had rendered it bearable—­but now, even that seemed powerless to keep her under the same roof as her mother.  Where could she go?  She would walk on, no matter in what direction; then, when she could walk no more, she might perhaps be calm enough to think.

IV.

“Where is Nan?” asked John Forest, when he entered the house, an hour after Nancy had left it.

“Oh, she’ll be here presently,” replied the mother evasively.  Of course Nancy would come soon, she thought to herself, and what was the use of rousing John?

Another hour passed.  “Nan’s very late to-night,” said her father.  “I’ve a mind to go and meet her.”