"Bless your heart," said Lenora, "haven't you sense enough to see that there is a great difference between Mrs. Hamilton first, and Mrs. Hamilton second? Now, I'm not naturally bad, and if I had been the daughter of Mrs. Hamilton first instead of Widow Carter's young one, why, I should have been as good as you--no, not as good as _you_, for you don't know enough to be bad--but as good as Mag, who, in my opinion, has the right kind of goodness, for all I used to hate her so." "Hate Margaret!" said Carrie, opening her eyes to their utmost extent. "What did you hate Margaret for?" "Because I didn't know her, I suppose," returned Lenora; "for now I like her well enough--not quite as well as I do you, perhaps; and yet, when I see you bear mother's abuse so meekly, I positively hate you for a minute, and ache to box your ears; but when Mag squares up to her, shuts her in the china closet, and all that, I want to put my arms right round neck." "Why, don't you like your mother?" asked Carrie, and Lenora replied: "Of course I do; but I know what she is and I know she isn't what she sometimes seems. Why, she'd be anything to suit the circumstances. She wanted your father, and she assumed the character most likely to secure him; for, between you and me, he isn't very smart." "What did she marry him for, then?" asked Carrie. "Marry _him_! I hope you don't for a moment suppose she married _him_!" "Why, Lenora, _ain't they married?_ I thought they were. Oh, dreadful!" and Carrie started to her feet, while the perspiration stood thickly on her forehead. Lenora screamed with delight, saying, "You certainly have the softest brain I ever saw. Of course the minister went through with the ceremony; but it was not your father that mother wanted; it was his house--his money--his horses--his servants, and his name. Now, maybe in your simplicity you have thought that mother came here out of kindness to the motherless children; but I tell you she would be better satisfied if neither of you had ever been born. I suppose it is wicked in me to say so, but I think she makes me worse than I would otherwise be; for I am not naturally so bad, and I like people much better than I pretend to. Anyway, I like you, and _love_ little Willie, and always have, since the first time I saw him. Your mother lay in her coffin, and Willie stood by her, caressing her cold cheek, and saying, 'Wake up, mamma, it's Willie; don't you know Willie? I took him in my arms, and vowed to love and shield him from the coming evil; for I knew then, as well as I do now, that what has happened would happen. Mag wasn't there; she didn't see me. If she had, she might have liked me better; now she thinks there is no good in me; and if, when you die, I should feel like shedding tears, and perhaps I shall, it would be just like her to wonder 'what business _I_ had to cry--it was none of my funeral!'"