David continued to stand with his arm about Anna. He had heard the

Belden gossip--a wealthy young man from Boston had been attentive to

her, then left the place; jilted her, some said; been refused by her,

said others. It did not make a bit of difference to David which

version was true; he was ready to stand by Anna in the face of a

thousand gossips. This was just his father's brutal way of upholding

what he was pleased to term his authority.

"What do you know about her, David?" reiterated the Squire. "I heard

reports, but like you, I would not believe them till I had investigated

them fully. Ask her if she has not been the mother of an illegitimate

child, who is now buried in the Episcopal cemetery at Belden--ask her

if she was not known there under the name of Mrs. Lennox?"

"It is true," said the girl, raising her head, "that I was known as

Mrs. Lennox. It is true that I have a child buried in Belden----"

David's arm fell from her, he buried his face in his hands and groaned.

Anna opened the door, a whirling gust flared the lamps and drove a

skurrying cloud of snowflakes within, yet not one hand was raised to

detain her. She swayed uncertain for a moment on the threshold, then

turned to them: "You have hunted me down, you have found out that I

have been a mother, that I am without the protection of a husband's

name, and that was enough for you--your duty stopped at the scandal.

Why did you not find out that I was a young, inexperienced girl who was

betrayed by a mock marriage--that I thought myself an honorable

wife--why should your duty stop in hunting down a defenseless girl

while the man who ruined her life sits there, a welcome guest in your

house to-night?"

She was gone--David, who had been stunned by his father's words, ran

after her, but the whirling flakes had hidden every trace of her, and

the howling wind drove back his cry of "Anna, Anna! come back!"

Anna did not feel the cold after closing the door between her and the

Squire's family; the white flame of her wrath seemed to burn up the

blood in her veins, as she plunged through the snowdrifts, unconscious

of the cold and storm. She had no words in which to formulate her fury

at the indignity of her treatment. Her native sweetness, for the

moment, had been extinguished and she was but the incarnation of

wronged womanhood, crying aloud to high Heaven for justice.




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