Then there ensued a scene between those four women which beggars description. Scorn, contempt and condemnation on the part of Madame Winthrop; anger, defiance, and the bitterness of defeat, on the part of Mrs. Rochester. Sarah Rochester was the most crushed and humiliated of them all, and her shame and despair were like the mighty rush of pent-up waters that had burst all barriers and swept everything before them. She denounced them all, herself no less than the others, but she fiercely accused her mother of having ruined her life, her character, her soul, by the false and heartless way in which she had reared and educated her; by making wealth and selfish pleasure the main object of existence, and hesitating at no means, right or wrong, to attain her ends. For a time she was like one bereft of reason, and poured forth a torrent of fiery, passionate words that made her listeners shiver and cower before her. Then, exhausted with her passion, she sank in a heap upon the floor, weeping and sobbing in the utter abandonment of grief and shame. Into the midst of this scene Norman Winthrop suddenly came, pale and stern, but with a resolute purpose written upon his face. He went directly to the side of the conscience-smitten girl and lifted her up. “I have heard all,” he said, with white lips. “I know the whole shameful story—all the wrong, all the sin and wretched scheming, and the scandal which must follow its revelation. You are all a set of proud, ambitious, and false-hearted women; you two,” turning fiercely upon Madame Winthrop and Mrs. Rochester, “are a fine pair of mothers! It is no wonder that you make heartless coquettes of your daughters, and ruin the lives of your sons. You have overreached yourselves, however, at last, and must reap the reward of your devilish schemes, unless——Sarah, there is no other way out of it; you know that I love you; will you marry me?” The sound of her real name from his lips somewhat calmed the passion-wrought girl, and she lifted her white, despairing face to his, with a look of incredulous astonishment. “Oh, I am not fit to be the wife of any man,” she said, with a bitter sob, yet her fingers closed almost convulsively over his sustaining hand, and the act sent a throb of joy to the heart of the young man, for it assured him that she really loved him in spite of all. “We will not inquire too closely into the fitness of character upon either side,” he returned, with some bitterness. “I only ask—will you give yourself to me—will you be my wife?” And with a burst of genuine sorrow, and a dawning repentance, the girl dropped her head upon his breast, murmuring: “Oh, forgive me, forgive me, and I will try to be a better woman.” “We will both try for better things,” he returned; then he added, with a sigh of relief, “and our first duty will be to save my brother the shame and annoyance of a wretched scandal; we owe him that much at least.”