It would be impossible to describe the expression of Hepsy’s face, or the attitude of her person, at that moment, as she stood with her mouth open, her green calash hanging down her back, her nose elevated, and her hands upraised in astonishment at what she had heard. For a time after Hannah’s death, Mrs. Thompson had tolerated Mildred simply because her daughter had loved her, and she could not wholly cast her off; but after a few weeks she found that the healthy, active child could be made useful in various ways, and had an opportunity presented itself, she would not have given her up. So she kept her, and Mildred now was little more than a drudge, where once she had been a petted and half-spoiled child. She washed the dishes, swept the floors, scoured the knives, scrubbed the door-sill, and latterly she had been initiated into the mysteries of _shoe-closing_, an employment then very common to the women and children of the Bay State. By scolding and driving, early and late, Aunt Hepsy managed to make her earn fifteen cents a day, and as this to her was quite an item, she had an object for wishing to keep Mildred with her. Thus it was not from any feeling of humanity that she with others remained silent as to Mildred’s parentage, but simply because she had an undefined fancy that, if the child once knew there was no tie of blood between them, she would some day, when her services were most needed, resent the abuses heaped upon her, and go out into the world alone. So when she heard from Mildred herself that she did know,—when the words, “You are not my granny,” were hurled at her defiantly, as it were, she felt as if something she had valued was wrested from her, and she stood a moment uncertain how to act. But Hepsy Thompson was equal to almost any emergency, and after a little she recovered from her astonishment, and replied: “So you know it, do you? Well, I’m glad if somebody’s saved me the trouble of telling you how you’ve lived on us all these years. S’posin I was to turn you out-doors, where would you go or who would you go to?” Mildred’s voice trembled, and the tears gathered in her large, dark eyes, as she answered: “Go to _mother_, if I could find her.” “Your mother!” and a smile of scorn curled Hepsy’s withered lips. “A pretty mother you’ve got. If she’d cast you off when a baby, it’s mighty likely she’d take you now.” Every word which Hepsy said stung Mildred’s sensitive nature, for she felt that it was true. Her mother had cast her off, and in all the wide world there was no one to care for her, no place she could call her home, save the cheerless gable-roof, and even there she had no right. Once a thought of Richard flitted across her mind, but it soon passed away, for he was probably dead, and if not, he had forgotten her ere this. All her assurance left her, and burying her face in Oliver’s lap, she moaned aloud: “Oh, Clubs, Clubs, I most wish I was dead. Nobody wants me nowhere. What shall I do?”