is family," cried the girl. "He
is no coward. If he had been as small-minded and cruel as you, he would
have left you to die on the floor the day you fell, instead of bringing
you upstairs and going for a doctor--you, who have cursed him! You had
better know the truth. Did you think it was I who placed you on this bed?
I couldn't have done it. I am not strong enough. It was Martin--Martin
Howe!"

Ellen stared stupidly.

"I'd rather have died!" she muttered between clinched teeth.

"Yes, you would," retorted Lucy. "You would rather have gone down to your
grave with bitterness in your soul and a curse upon your lips than to have
accepted aid from Martin Howe. You would not have helped him had he been
in trouble. You would have been glad to see him suffer--glad!"

The woman listened as if spellbound.

"But Martin Howe is too much of a Christian for that. Yes, you can sneer.
He is a Christian and a gentleman. You are not worthy to touch the ground
beneath his feet. He would not leave you without help. Since you have been
ill, he has given part of each day to working in your garden; and he is
busy and tired, too. He's done it that your crops might not fail. It is
Martin Howe that you have to thank for your harvest, whether you like it
or not--Martin Howe!"

Breathlessly she paused.

"You seem to have a terrible high opinion of Martin Howe," scoffed Ellen,
with scathing sarcasm.

"I have."

"Likely you're in love with him," jibed the tormentor.

"Yes, I love him."

The simple confession came proudly from the girl's lips.

"An' he loves you, no doubt," continued the old woman with a laugh. "At
least he's probably told you so."

"No, he hasn't."

"Oh-ho! He hasn't, eh?"

"No."

"An' never will," shouted the harpy triumphantly. "He ain't marryin' no
Websters--don't you think it for one minute. He's just makin' a fool of
you. That's his idea of revenge--your Christian gentleman!"

She rubbed her dank hands together.

"I don't believe it."

"You wouldn't be likely to," returned Ellen sharply. "I didn't expect it.
No girl is ever willin' to believe her lover's a scoundrel. But mark my
words--Martin Howe is playin' with you--playin'--just the way a cat plays
with a mouse. He's aimin' to get you into his clutches an' ruin you--wait
an' see if he ain't. Oh, he's a deep one, this gentleman you seem to think
so much of!"

"I'll not believe it," repeated Lucy hotly.

"You'd marry him, I s'pose," Ellen hissed.