going to tell you. Your own
child is lost, you let her be lost. You didn't look out for her. Yes,
your own child is lost, and you sit there and rock!"

Ida for a moment made no reply. The other women, and Gladys and
Wollaston in the vestibule, listened with horror.

"You have had beefsteak and fried potatoes cooked, too," continued
Maria, sniffing, "and you have eaten them. You have been eating
beefsteak and fried potatoes when your own child was lost and you did
not know where she was!" It might have been ridiculous, this last
accusation in the thin, sweet, childish voice, but it was not. It was
even more terrible than anything else.

Ida turned at last. "I hate you," she said slowly. "I have always
hated you. You have hated me ever since I came into this house," she
said, "though I have done more than your own mother ever did for you."

"You have not!" cried Maria. "You have got nice clothes for me, but
my own mother loved me. What are nice clothes to love? You have not
even loved Evelyn. You have only got her nice clothes. You have never
loved her. Poor papa and I were the only ones that loved her. You
never even loved poor papa. You saw to it that he had things to eat,
but you never loved him. You are not made right. All the love in your
heart is for your own self. You are turned the wrong way. I don't
know as you can help it, but you are a dreadful woman. You are
wicked. You never loved the baby, and now you have let her be lost.
She is my own little sister, and papa's child, a great deal more than
she is anything to you. Where is she?" Maria's voice rang wild. Her
face was blazing. She had an abnormal expression in her blue eyes
fixed upon her step-mother.

Ida, after her one outburst, gazed upon her with a sort of fear as
well as repulsion. She again turned to the Tiffany vase.

Mrs. White, sobbing aloud like a child, again put her arms around
Maria.

"Come, come," she said soothingly, "you poor child, I know how you
feel, but you mustn't talk so, you mustn't, dear! You have no right
to judge. You don't know how your mother feels."

"I know how She doesn't feel!" Maria burst out, "and She isn't my
mother. My mother loves me more way off in heaven than that woman
loves Her own child on earth. She doesn't feel. She just rocks, and
thinks how She looks. I hate Her! Let me go!" With that Maria was out
of the room, and ran violently up-stairs.

When she had gone, the three visiting women looked at one anot