“When I was watching that poor sick girl,” she continued, “I thought I could have loved her, she was so beautiful and gentle, as she lay there, white and thin, and never speaking a word against you, Philip, but thinking of her friends far away, and asking to be taken home—­home, where her mother was sleeping under the sod—­home, to be loved and kissed again before she died.  And I would have loved her if I hadn’t hated you so much that there wasn’t room for the love of any living creature in my bad heart.  I used to sit all night and hear her talk—­talk in her dreams and in her fever—­as if there were kind people listening to her, people that were kind to her long ago.  And the room seemed full of angels sometimes, so that I was afraid to move and look about; for I could swear I heard the fanning of their wings and the rustle of their feet upon the carpet.  Sometimes I saw big round tears upon her wasted cheeks, and I wouldn’t brush them away, for they looked like jewels that the angels had dropped there.  And then I tried to cry myself, but, ha! ha!  I had to laugh instead, although my heart was bursting.  I wished I could have cried; I’m sure it would have made my heart so light, and perhaps it would have burst that ring of hot iron that was pressing so hard around my head.  It’s there now, sinking and burning right against my temples.  But I can’t cry, I haven’t since I was a little girl, long ago, long ago; but I think I cried when mother died, long ago, long ago.”

She was speaking in a kind of dreamy murmur, while Philip paced the room; and finally she sank down upon the floor, and sat there with her hands pressed against her brows, rocking herself to and fro.

“Moll,” said Philip, stooping over her, and speaking in a gentle tone, “I’m sorry I struck you, indeed I am; but I was drunk, and when you cut me, I didn’t know what I was about.  Now let’s be friends, there’s a good girl.  You must go back to Washington, you know, and to New York, and stay there till I come back.  Won’t you, now, Moll?”

“Won’t I?  No, Philip Searle, I won’t.  I’ll stay by you till you kill me; yes, I will.  You want to go after that poor girl and torment her; but she’s dying and soon you won’t be able to hurt her any more.”

“Was it she, Moll, was it Miranda that came here with you?  Was she going to Richmond?”

“She was going to heaven, Philip Searle, out of the reach of such as you and me.  I’m good enough for you, Philip, bad as I am; and I’m your wife, besides.”

“You told her that?”

“Told her?  Ha! ha!  Told her? do you think I’m going to make that a secret?  No, no.  We’re a bad couple, sure enough; but I’m not going to deny you, for all that.  Look you, young man,” she continued, addressing Harold, who at that moment entered the room, “that is Philip Searle, and Philip Searle is my husband—­my husband, curse his black heart! and if he dares deny it, I’ll have him in the State prison, for I can do it.”