Her eyes were bright and full of indignation, and her plain little face was so white that every freckle showed distinctly.
"There was a time, years ago," she began in a low voice, "when you were very rich and your sister Violet, my mother, was very poor.

Her health was bad, and she had me to care for, while my father was very ill with a fever.

She was proud, too, and for herself she would never have begged a penny of anyone; but for my sake she asked her rich sister to loan her a little money to tide her over her period of want.
What did you do, Jane Merrick, you who lived in a beautiful mansion, and had more money than you could use?
You insulted her, telling her she belonged to a family of beggars, and that none of them could wheedle your money away from you!" "It was true," retorted the elder woman, stubbornly.

"They were after me like a drove of wolves--every Merrick of them all--and they would have ruined me if I had let them bleed me as they wished." "So far as my mother is concerned, that's a lie," said Patsy, quietly.
"She never appealed to you but that once, but worked as bravely as she could to earn money in her own poor way.

The result was that she died, and I was left to the care of strangers until my father was well enough to support me." She paused, and again the room seemed unnaturally still.
"I'm sorry, girl," said Aunt Jane, at last, in trembling tones.