last, an' d'reckly
she ast, in a whisper, says she--

"'Was this my dear daughter's room?'

"Maybe you think," said Mrs. Bivins, regarding me coldly and
critically, and pressing her thin lips more firmly together, if that
could be--"maybe you think I oughter wrung my han's, an' pitied that
'oman kneelin' thar in that room whar all my trouble was born an' bred.
Some folks would 'a flopped down by 'er, an' I won't deny but what hit
come over me; but the nex' minnit hit flashed acrost me as quick an'
hot as powder how she'd 'a bin a-houndin' airter me an' my son, an'
a-treatin' us like as we'd 'a bin the offscourin's er creation, an' how
she cast off her own daughter, which Deely was as good a gal as ever
draw'd the breath er life--when all this come over me, hit seem like to
me that I couldn't keep my paws off'n 'er. I hope the Lord'll forgive
me--that I do--but if hit hadn't but 'a bin for my raisin', I'd 'a
jumped at Emily Wornum an' 'a spit in 'er face an' 'a clawed 'er eyes
out'n 'er. An' yit, with ole Nick a-tuggin' at me, I was a Christun
'nuff to thank the Lord that they was a tender place in that pore
miserbul creetur's soul-case.

"When I seen her a-kneelin' thar, with 'er year-rings a-danglin' an'
'er fine feathers a-tossin' an' a-trimblin', leetle more an' my
thoughts would 'a sot me afire. I riz an' I stood over her, an' I says,
says I--

"'Emily Wornum, whar you er huntin' the dead you oughter hunted the
livin'. What's betwix' you an' your Maker _I_ can't tell,' says I, 'but
if you git down on your face an' lick the dirt what Deely Bivins walked
on, still you won't be humble enough for to go whar _she's_ gone, nor
good enough nuther. She died right yer while you was a-traipsin' an'
a-trollopin' roun' frum pos' to pillar a-upholdin' your quality idees.
These arms helt 'er,' says I, 'an' ef hit hadn't but 'a bin for _her_,
Emily Wornum,' says I, 'I'd 'a strangled the life out'n you time your
shadder darkened my door. An' what's more,' says I, 'ef youer come to
bother airter Pud, _the make the trail of it. Thes so much as lay the
weight er your little finger on 'er,_' says I, '_an' I'll grab you by
the goozle an' t'ar your haslet out_,' says I."

O mystery of humanity! It was merely Mrs. Feratia Bivins who had been
speaking, but the voice was the voice of Tragedy. Its eyes shone; its
fangs glistened and gleamed; its hands clutched the air; its tone was
husky with suppressed fury; its rage would have storm