Some evil spirit moved me, I cannot tell how; it seemed to me that I had found her out, that it was this she wanted. I got up from my chair flaming with the momentary hot passion of grief. “If there is any money for me, and if you want that, you can have it,” I cried, and tried to go away. She gave a little moaning cry, as if I had struck her. “Oh, Mary, Mary!” she cried, with a wailing voice more of sorrow than of indignation; and then she put out her hand and caught my dress. I could not have got away if I had wished, and I did not wish it, for I was devoured by curiosity about what she would do and say. This curiosity was the beginning of interest, though I did not know it; it fascinated me to her. She caught my dress and drew me closer. She put her other hand on mine, and drew me down to her, so that my face approached hers. She put up her white cheek, her eyes all hollowed out with crying, to mine: “Mary,” she said, in a heartrending tone, “do not go away from me. I have nobody but you in the world.” Then she paused. “I am going to have a baby,” she said all at once, with a low, sharp cry. I was confounded. I do not know what I said or did. Shame, wonder, pity, emotion--all mingled in me. I was very young, younger in heart than I was in years; and to have such a thing told to me overwhelmed me with shame and awe. It was so wonderful, so mysterious, so terrible. I dropped on my knees beside her, and covered my face with my hands, and cried. I could not resist any longer, or shut myself up. We cried together, clinging to each other, weeping over our secret. _He_ had not known. At the last, when she was aware herself, she would not tell him to add to his pains. “He will know in heaven, Mary,” she said, winding her arms round me, weeping on my shoulder, shaking me, frail support as I was, with her sobs. This was how the other Mary and I became one. We were not without comfort as we crept upstairs, with our pale faces. She went with me to my room; she would not let me go. I had to hold her hand even when we went to sleep. “Do not leave me, Mary; stay with me, Mary,” she moaned, whenever I stirred. And we slept by snatches, in our weariness; slept and woke to sob, and then slept again. CHAPTER IV