“Tell me, Sophy,” she said, “was Elsie always as shy as she seems to be now, in talking with those to whom she is friendly?”

“Alway jes’ so, Miss Darlin’, ever sense she was little chil’.  When she was five, six year old, she lisp some,—­call me Thophy; that make her kin’ o’ ‘shamed, perhaps:  after she grow up, she never lisp, but she kin’ o’ got the way o’ not talkin’ much.  Fac’ is, she don’ like talkin’ as common gals do, ‘xcep’ jes’ once in a while wi’ some partic’lar folks,—­’n’ then not much.”

“How old is Elsie?”

“Eighteen year this las’ September.”

“How long ago did her mother die?” Helen asked, with a little trembling in her voice.

“Eighteen year ago this October,” said Old Sophy.

Helen was silent for a moment.  Then she whispered, almost inaudibly,—­for her voice appeared to fail her,

“What did her mother die of, Sophy?”

The old woman’s small eyes dilated until a ring of white showed round their beady centres.  She caught Helen by the hand and clung to it, as if in fear.  She looked round at Elsie, who lay sleeping, as of she might be listening.  Then she drew Helen towards her and led her softly out of the room.

“‘Sh!—­’sh!” she said, as soon as they were outside the door.  “Don’ never speak in this house ’bout what Elsie’s mother died of!” she said.  “Nobody never says nothin’ ‘bout it.  Oh, God has made Ugly Things wi’ death in their mouths, Miss Darlin’, an’ He knows what they’re for; but my poor Elsie!—­to have her blood changed in her before—­It was in July Mistress got her death, but she liv’ till three week after my poor Elsie was born.”

She could speak no more.  She had said enough.  Helen remembered the stories she had heard on coming to the village, and among them one referred to in an early chapter of this narrative.  All the unaccountable looks and tastes and ways of Elsie came back to her in the light of an ante-natal impression which had mingled an alien element in her nature.  She knew the secret of the fascination which looked out of her cold, glittering eyes.  She knew the significance of the strange repulsion which she felt in her own intimate consciousness underlying the inexplicable attraction which drew her towards the young girl in spite of this repugnance.  She began to look with new feelings on the contradictions in her moral nature,—­the longing for sympathy, as shown by her wishing for Helen’s company, and the impossibility of passing beyond the cold circle of isolation within which she had her being.  The fearful truth of that instinctive feeling of hers, that there was something not human looking out of Elsie’s eyes, came upon her with a sudden flash of penetrating conviction.  There were two warring principles in that superb organization and proud soul.  One made her a woman, with all a woman’s powers and longings.  The other chilled all the currents of outlet for her emotions.  It made her tearless and mute,