Then all at once her anger gave way. In a lower tone she said, 'Call me what you will. I do not care. I sold laces and pins and needles――pins at a ha'penny a row. Yes, I am a tramp, a common huckster. Say what you will. I know I am honest, and I know my mother is clear as sea-water. Say what you will, you and that bully Dench. I am alone, and there is none to protect me. Insult me as you choose. It is fine sport for men. They can worry us and do not fear having their fingers bitten. I cannot defend myself against a brute like Dench and a coward like you combined against me.' 'Winefred,' said the young man, 'I also am alone, utterly alone in the world. In that we are alike. But there the likeness ends. I am poor, you are rich. But in my poverty and solitude I thank God I am not as you are, full of malice.' 'Of malice!' 'Of resentment and rage.' 'Have I not a cause? When every one is set against us, when we are worried and baited, can we curl up and take it calmly? The hedgehog can do that because of his prickles. If I were to scream out all would laugh. When I shut my lips you sneer and say I am holding back my tears. Let me through.' Without another word, without a good-night, but dashing a blow at him, a harmless stroke with the thorn bough, she thrust through the gateway he had made and went forth upon the down. CHAPTER XXVII MOTHER AND DAUGHTER When Winefred entered the cottage where her mother was, she seated herself on a chair against the wall, and let her hands drop on her knees. Her mother, who was knitting, looked up, and said, 'Back so soon!' Winefred did not reply, and the woman continued at her work, but she jerked the worsted, and let slip a needle that fell upon the floor. 'Why are you returned so soon?' she asked, after she had stooped, picked up the fallen pin, and recovered the dropped stitches. 'I had enough of it,' answered the girl shortly. Jane looked at her, but Winefred turned aside that her mother might not see her face. 'You are not cold, I reckon,' said Jane, 'so you do not come to the fire. Have you danced?' 'No.' 'Have you supped?' 'No.' 'Why did you leave without your supper?' 'I have had enough of it,' again answered the girl. Mrs. Marley rose, went into the kitchen to the larder, and brought in food, which she set on the table, but Winefred made a motion of refusal. 'I am not hungry, I cannot eat.' 'Something has gone wrong,' said her mother. 'Tell me what it is.' 'There is nothing to tell.' Her mother did not press her. She knew the ways of her child, knew that her heart was full, and that she feared to speak lest she should expose herself and distress her mother. She resumed her work and allowed the food to remain on the table. Ever and anon she looked from the stocking she was knitting at the girl seated with her back to the wall.