men.' I
married a Delaware man, and so I quit bein' Martha Hanley and became
Patty Cannon."[7]

"And what a career you have led, Aunt Patty! Lived anywhere but in this
old pocket between the bays, you would have had the reputation of
Captain Kidd. Tell me now, conservatively, was not your own helpless
childhood the cause of your mistakes, and does it never make you feel
for other sparrow-birds like Hulda?"

The black-haired woman, with a certain evil-thinking, like one reflected
upon harshly, finally clapped her bold black eyes on McLane's, and
replied, chuckling:

"I don't know as it do, Cunnil. Before my mother pinted the way, I loved
the men. I loved 'em to be bad. Mommy tuk us as we drifted. An' as fur
Huldy yer, her mother throws her onto me; she's not like the Cannons an'
Johnsons; she's full of pride, and," with an oath, "let it be tuk out of
her! Will you pay my price?"

He hesitated.

"It's not the price, Patty; it's the way. Isn't it cowardly?"

"Yes," said Patty, saucily, "it's kidnappin'. That's the trade yer. Pay
down the money, Cunnil, an' this bare room will brighten to be your
wedding chamber. Pah! are you a man!"

Her words aroused the visions self-love can reluctantly repulse, and
which, entertained but an instant, grow irresistible.

The limber, maturing, rounding form of Hulda stepped on the footstool of
his mind, touched his knee, and exhaled the aroma of her youth like a
subtile musk, till he leaned back languidly, as if he smoked a pipe and
on its bowl her bust was painted, and all her modesties dissolved into
the intoxication. Brutality itself grew natural to this vision, as a
fiercer joy and substitute for the deceit he could no longer practice.
The child had flown from her in the instant of his grasping it, like a
pale butterfly, but there remained where it had floated, a silken and
nubile essence, fairy and humanity in one, clad in pure thoughts and
sweet respect, the profanation of which would be as rare a game as
Satan's struggle with the soul of Eve.

Her innocence and spirit, self-respect and awakened womanly
consciousness, weakness and sensibility, mettle and beauty, presented
themselves by turns; and the cold, woodeny room, the neglected tavern,
the autumn night wind coming down the chimney and starting the fire, all
seemed instinctive, like him, with mischief, as if Patty Cannon's soul
flew astraddle of a broom and led a hundred witches.

McLane was fifty; his family was a