g up the hill towards her friend's hut, when she
meets young Tombo, who rushes up and seizes her skirts.

"Oh, do come!" he cries, dragging her along; "something awful bad is
going on at home. There is a stranger at our door crying just
dreadful; and mother's red in the face, sayin' no end of angry words,
stampin', fumin', and wringing her hands. The stranger wanted to see
me and speak; but mother just hustled me out at the back, and tells me
to go and play beans in the jungle. But the boys are not there.
Quartey M'Ba is takin' care of his father, who's dead drunk with Zoo,
and little Rangusaw Mymoodelayer is workin' with his uncle. It's sure
to be all right if you come, Mrs. Quinton. Mother 'll calm down when
she sees who I've brought."

He runs eagerly before her, while Eleanor, utterly at a loss to
comprehend the nature of the trouble, approaches Elizabeth's homestead
in some trepidation.

"I'll have none of you," Mrs. Kachin's hard voice is heard exclaiming.
"Did I not write it plain in black and white? Didn't I repeat it three
times over on the same page, twice underlined? Am I not old enough to
speak for myself, to know my own will? Begone, or I'll tell you some
home truths which were best not uttered from my lips."

"Oh, little Beth, little Beth!" moans a pleading voice, "the child I
nursed and loved. Can it be you that speaks so hard, that turns me
from the door? Let me see the child before I go--the sturdy dark boy
who was born to you. Beth, have some pity, some mercy on my misery!
It has cost me nearly my little all to come out to you, for I thought
your heart would soften when you saw your mother's face."

She breaks off into bitter sobbing and sinks on the step.

Eleanor stands like one paralysed listening to the quarrel, while Tombo
hides behind her skirts, clinging to her fearfully.

Her face flushes with shame for Elizabeth, and pity for this stricken
woman. Her eyes flash scorn on Mrs. Kachin, as she turns and raises
the stranger from her attitude of humility and degradation.

"Your daughter's virtue and pride are things to be despised, accursed,"
she says, "when bound in such an armour of harshness and cruelty."

The weeping woman lifts her head, and her eyes meet Eleanor's.

The two start involuntarily. The scene of a railway carriage rushes
suddenly before their vision, the fragments of a torn photograph, the
name on the label of Eleanor's dressing bag.

"Mrs. Roche!" gasps th