stic words, but in a
general way supposed they referred to her recent experiences as unusual.

"You were mistaken, Mrs. Bays," he said. "Dic could not offer insult to
your daughter. You were mistaken."

"I guess I was," she replied; "I guess I was, but I never, I never in
all my life!"

The old woman was terribly shaken up; but when Billy took his departure,
her faculties returned with more than pristine vigor, and poor, sick
Rita, as usual, fell a victim to her restored powers of invective.

Mrs. Bays shed no tears. The salt in her nature was not held in
solution, but was a rock formation from which tears could not easily be
distilled.

"I have nursed you through sickness," she said, turning upon Rita with
an indignant, injured air. "I have toiled for you, suffered for you,
prayed for you. I have done my duty by you if mother ever did duty by
child, and now I am insulted for your sake; but I bear it all with a
contrite spirit because you are my daughter, though God's just hand is
heavy upon me. There is one burden I will bear no longer. You must give
up that man--that brute, who just insulted me."

"He did not insult you, mother."

"He did, and nothing but God's protecting grace saved me from bodily
harm in my own house while protecting my daughter's honor."

"But, mother," cried Rita, weeping, "you are wrong. If there was any
wrong, it was I who did it."

"You don't know! Oh, that I should live to see what I did see, and
endure what I have endured this day for the sake of an ungrateful
daughter--oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth, as the good book says--to
be insulted--I never! I never!"

Rita, of course, had been weeping during her mother's harangue; but when
the old woman took up her meaningless refrain, "I never! I never!" the
girl's sobs became almost convulsive. Mrs. Bays saw her advantage and
determined not to lose it.

"Promise me," demanded this tender mother, rudely shaking the girl,
"promise me you will never speak to him again."

Rita did not answer--she could not, and the demand was repeated. Still
Rita answered not.

"If you don't promise me, I'll leave your bedside. I'll never speak your
name again."

"Oh, mother," sobbed the girl, "I beg you not to ask that promise of me.
I can't give it. I can't. I can't."

"Give me the promise this instant, or I'll disown you. Do you promise?"

The old woman bent fiercely over her daughter and waited stonily for an
answer. Rita shrank from her, bu