excuse. Edward
Maxwell had that fifteen hundred dollars of my husband's, an' I never
had a cent of it; but that wa'n't any excuse. I thought I'd jest stay
here an' carry it out till I got the money back; but that wa'n't any
excuse. I ain't spent a cent of the money; it's all put away just as
it was paid in, in a sugar-bowl in the china closet; but that ain't
any excuse. I took it on myself to do justice instead of the Lord,
an' that ain't for any human bein' to do. I ain't Esther Maxwell. I'm
brought up short. I ain't Esther Maxwell!" Her voice rose to a stern
shriek.

The three women stared at her, then at each other. Their faces were
white. Amanda was catching her breath in faint gasps. Jane Field
rushed out of the room. The door closed heavily after her.

Three wild, pale faces huddled together in a window watched her out
of the yard. Mrs. Babcock called weakly after her to come back, but
she kept on. She went out of the yard and down the street. At the
first house she stopped, went up to the door and rang the bell. When
a woman answered her ring, she looked at her and said, "I ain't
Esther Maxwell!" Then she turned and went down the walk between the
rows of marigolds and asters, and the woman stood staring after her
for a minute, then ran in, and the windows filled with wondering
faces.

Jane Field stopped at the next house with the same message. After she
left a woman pelted across the yard in a panic to compare notes with
her neighbors. She kept on down the street, and she stopped at every
door and said, "I ain't Esther Maxwell."

Now and then somebody tried to delay her to question her and obtain
an explanation, but she broke away. There was about her a terrible
mental impetus which intimidated. People stood instinctively out of
her way, as before some rushing force which might overwhelm them.

Daniel Tuxbury followed her out to the street; then he fell back.
Mrs. Jane Maxwell caught hold of her dress, but she let go, and
leaned trembling over her iron gate looking after the relentless
black figure speeding to the next door.

She went on and on, all the summer afternoon, and canvassed the
little village with her remorse and confession of crime. Finally the
four words which she said at the doors seemed almost involuntary.
They became her one natural note, the expression of her whole life.
It was as if she had never said any others. At last, going along the
street, she repeated them to everybody she met.