Every fibre in her was in revolt.

They were so unworthy--so unworthy of Harry Wethermill, and of herself as she now herself wished to be.

But she had to pay now; the moment for payment had come.
"Celie," said Mme.

Dauvray, "it isn't true! Surely it isn't true ?" Celia drew her hands away from her face.
"Let Mme.

Rossignol come on Tuesday!" she cried, and the old woman caught the girl's hand and pressed it with affection.
"Oh, thank you! thank you!" she cried.