Rachel gave her a swift, bird-like glance. "You do care; you're crying,"
she exclaimed, aghast at the tears running over the wrinkled face.
"Not about that, but the things you said; I didn't mean to do you harm."
Miss Parrott did not attempt to deny the tears, and brushed them off with a
trembling hand.
"You ain't hurt me," cried Rachel, stumbling across the floor, with an
awful feeling at her heart to see this stiff old woman cry.
"Oh, whatever your name is, don't! I'll go home, and the minister may send
me back to Gran, an' she may beat me. Don't cry!" She seized the heavy
black silk in its front breadth and held on tightly.
The butler, having at this minute his eye at the keyhole, now rushed in,
unable to bear the sight, to be met by Miss Parrott, her withered face
flaming behind her tears.
"Do you go directly out, Hooper, and remain away until you are called." He
never knew how he got out; and this time the keyhole was unobstructed.
"Were you beaten, you poor little thing?" Was this Miss Parrott bending
over Rachel's shaking shoulders, and hands clutching the silk gown! "Oh,
dear, dear!"
"Tain't no matter," mumbled Rachel. "I don't care, only don't let me go
back." She shook in terror, and crouched down to the floor.
"Never!" said Miss Parrott firmly. All the blood in her body seemed to be
in her wrinkled face, and her eyes shone, as had those of her father, the
old judge, when befriending some poor unfortunate.
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