This was not at all the way in which Queenie had intended to commence. She was going to come to it gradually, or, as she had expressed it to herself, “hunt Christine down.” But when she saw her, her hot, passionate temper rose up at once, and she blurted out what she knew and then waited the result. It was different from what she anticipated. She had expected Christine to crouch at once at her feet and, cowering before her, confess her guilt and sue for pity and pardon. But Christine did nothing of the sort. Quiet and gentle as she usually seemed, there was still in her a fierce fiery spirit, which, when roused, was something akin to the demon which ruled Queenie in her moods. When charged with being Christine Bodine she was worn in mind and body, and had shown only nervousness and agitation, for Queenie had not approached her then as she did now. There was no disgust, no hatred, in her manner when she said: “You are Christine, my old nurse.” She had merely been excited and reproachful; but _now_ she was angry, and attacked the woman with so much bitterness, and shrunk away from her with so much loathing that Christine was roused to defend herself, though at first she was stricken dumb when she heard of the letters which she remembered so well, and which would tell what she had kept so long. Standing but a few feet from Queenie she gazed at her a moment, with a pallid face, on which all the worst emotions of her nature were visible. And when at last she spoke, it was not in the low, half-deprecating, apologetic voice habitual to her, but the tone was loud and clear, and defiant, in which she said: “What letters have you seen, and where did you find them?” Her manner, so different from what had been expected, made Queenie still more angry, and she replied with all the sternness and dignity it was possible for her to assume: “It does not matter to you where I found them. It is sufficient that I _have_ found them, and know your barefaced treachery, and how you must have deceived my mother who trusted you so implicitly, and who died, believing you to be good, and honest, and true to her, when all the time you were vile and low. You knew when you held her dying head upon your bosom what you were at heart, and yet you dared lay your hands on her dead form, dared care for her baby, and kiss it with lips which never shall meet mine again, and then you wrote to my father and called yourself his _little Tina_, as if you really supposed he could care for you! Men like him never love women like you, and my father was not an exception. He cast you off as we do a worn-out garment; he hated the thoughts of you, hated himself, and repented so bitterly.