nd
carried her from the roadside deep into the tangled growths of the
vacant yard--deeper and deeper, until no sound at all came to us from
them.

"That was Mrs. Fulton's laundress and her husband," said Hilda. "She's
been trying to copy Mrs. Fulton; but _he's_ settled that. He's a real
man, and he'll keep his wife. Women like to be hit and trampled. It
proves to them that they're worth while."

"That may be, Hilda. I don't know. I couldn't hit a woman. . . . You
haven't told me that you're not going to tell what you saw."

"I don't know," she said; "he's suffered enough. It ought to end."

"But I thought you--didn't want to hurt me?"

"I don't. Still----"

"Still what?"

"Oh, favors aren't everything."

"What do you mean, Hilda!"

"Oh, I'm just a servant. I suppose I could be bought."

"I thought better of you."

"Not with money."

"Not with money? How then?"

She turned her face up to mine, then smiled and closed her eyes. "A
kiss more or less," she said, "wouldn't matter much to _you_."

And I kissed her.

Then she opened her eyes and looked up at me until the silence between
us grew oppressive. Then with a sudden, "Oh, what's the use!" turned
and hurried off. But I caught up with her in two bounds.

"Don't go away like that."

"Oh," she cried, "I hoped you _wouldn't_. But you _did_. It's bad
enough to love you, but to despise you too! Oh, don't worry. _I_
won't tell. I've been bought, I've _lived_."

I remained for a long time, alone, under the cedar tree. I was
horribly ashamed and troubled, not because I had kissed her, but
because I had had the impulse to kiss her again, because I realized at
last that it takes more than a romantic love affair to make a silk
purse out of a sow's ear. Because for a moment I saw myself as Hilda
saw me--because for a moment I was able to judge Lucy and me, as others
would judge us.

I remained for a long time. The negro and his wife came quietly out of
the bushes, her arm through his. She would not now run off with the
yellow man. I watched them until the darkness swallowed them.

I leaned against the fragrant stem of the cedar, my hand across my
eyes. And in that moment of self-reproach, dread and contempt of the
future, I too wished the most worthy and sincere wish of my life.

I wished that I had never been born.

XXVI

For once, with complete fervor, I wished that I had never been born.
And if I was to get back any g