Christy (at the fire).  F—­f—­f! but it is cold. (Seeing the girl, and staring lumpishly at her.) Why, who are you?

The girl (shyly).  Essie.

Mrs. Dudgeon.  Oh you may well ask. (To Essie.) Go to your room, child, and lie down since you haven’t feeling enough to keep you awake.  Your history isn’t fit for your own ears to hear.

Essie.  I—­

Mrs. Dudgeon (peremptorily).  Don’t answer me, Miss; but show your obedience by doing what I tell you. (Essie, almost in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa.) And don’t forget your prayers. (Essie goes out.) She’d have gone to bed last night just as if nothing had happened if I’d let her.

Christy (phlegmatically).  Well, she can’t be expected to feel Uncle Peter’s death like one of the family.

Mrs. Dudgeon.  What are you talking about, child?  Isn’t she his daughter—­the punishment of his wickedness and shame? (She assaults her chair by sitting down.)

Christy (staring).  Uncle Peter’s daughter!

Mrs. Dudgeon.  Why else should she be here?  D’ye think I’ve not had enough trouble and care put upon me bringing up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing brother, without having your uncle’s bastards—­

Christy (interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the door by which Essie went out).  Sh!  She may hear you.

Mrs. Dudgeon (raising her voice).  Let her hear me.  People who fear God don’t fear to give the devil’s work its right name.  (Christy, soullessly indifferent to the strife of Good and Evil, stares at the fire, warming himself.) Well, how long are you going to stare there like a stuck pig?  What news have you for me?

Christy (taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack to hang them up).  The minister is to break the news to you.  He’ll be here presently.

Mrs. Dudgeon.  Break what news?

Christy (standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his hat up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speaking with callous placidity, considering the nature of the announcement).  Father’s dead too.

Mrs. Dudgeon (stupent).  Your father!

Christy (sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming himself again, attending much more to the fire than to his mother).  Well, it’s not my fault.  When we got to Nevinstown we found him ill in bed.  He didn’t know us at first.  The minister sat up with him and sent me away.  He died in the night.

Mrs. Dudgeon (bursting into dry angry tears).  Well, I do think this is hard on me—­very hard on me.  His brother, that was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the public gallows as a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at home where his duty was, with his own family, goes after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders.  After sending this girl to me to take care of, too! (She plucks her shawl vexedly over her ears.) It’s sinful, so it is; downright sinful.