"Oh, Mrs. Boyd, I can’t stand this!" Virginia bowed her head and began to sob. "He was always a good friend, but I never dreamed that he cared for me that way, and now he thinks that I—thinks that I—oh!" "Well," Ann went on, disregarding the interruption, "I was left to tussle with the biggest situation of my life. I tried to fight it. I laid down to sleep, but rolled and tossed, unable to close my eyes, till at last, as God is my Judge, something inside of me—a big and swelling something I’d never felt before—picked me up and made me go to that house. You know the rest. Instead of standing by in triumph and seeing the child of my enemy swept away by my fate, I was praying God to save her. I don’t know what to make of my conduct, even now. Last night, when I come back to my house, I seemed all afire with feelings like none I ever had. As the Lord is my holy Guide, I felt like I wished I’d comforted you more—wished I’d taken you in my poor old arms there in the moonlight and held you to my breast, like I wish somebody had done me away back there before that dark chasm opened in front of me. I’m talking to you now as I never dreamt I could talk to a female, much less a daughter of Jane Hemingway; but I can’t help it. You are Luke’s chosen sweetheart, and to cast a slur on you for what took place last night would be to blight my own eternal chances of salvation; for, God bless your gentle little soul, you went there blinded by your mother’s suffering, an excuse I couldn’t make. No, there’s just one thing about it. Luke is right. You are a good, noble girl, and you’ve had your cross to bear, and I want to see you get what I missed—a long, happy life of love and usefulness in this world. You will get it with Luke, for he is the grandest character I ever knew or heard about. I don’t know but what right now it is his influence that’s making me whirl about this odd way. I don’t know what to make of it. As much as I hate your mother, I almost feel like I could let her stand and abuse me to my face and not talk back. Now, dry your eyes and finish that sausage. I reckon I hain’t the virago and spitfire you’ve been taught to think I am. Most of us are better on the inside than out. Stop—stop now! crying won’t do any good." "I can’t help it," Virginia sobbed. "You are so good to me, and to think that it was from my mother that you got all your abuse." "Well, never mind about that," Ann said, laying her hand almost with shamefaced stealth on the girl’s head and looking towards the swamp through the open door. "I see your cow is heading for home on her own accord. Follow her. This is our secret; nobody need know but us two. Your mammy would have you put in a house of detention if she knew it. Slip over and see me again when her back is turned. Lord, Lord, I wonder why I never thought about pitying you all along, instead of actually hating you for no fault of yours!"