war wet; and it war wet enough before he got through.
He war mad, I reckon; certain, Mass' Ed'ards, he war mad."

"_Wet?_" said I.

"Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, "'tain't nothin'. Them whips, they
draws the blood easy. Darry, he don't mind."

I have a recollection of the girl's terrified face, but I heard nothing
more. Such a deadly sickness came over me that for a minute I must have
been near fainting; happily it took another turn amid the various
confused feelings which oppressed me, and I burst into tears. My eyes had
not been wet through all the hours of the evening and night; my heartache
had been dry. I think I was never very easy to move to tears, even as a
child. But now, well for me, perhaps, some element of the pain I was
suffering found the unguarded point--or broke up the guard. I wept as I
have done very few times in my life. I had thrown myself into Mammy
Theresa's lap, in the weakness which could not support itself, and in an
abandonment of grief which was careless of all the outside world; and
there I lay, clasped in her arms and sobbing. Grief, horror, tender
sympathy, and utter helplessness, striving together; there was nothing
for me at that moment but the woman's refuge and the child's remedy of
weeping. But the weeping was so bitter, so violent, and so uncontrollable,
that the women were frightened. I believe they shut the doors, to keep
the sound of my sobs from reaching other ears; for when I recovered the
use of my senses I saw that they were closed.

The certain strange relief which tears do bring, they gave to me. I
cannot tell why. My pain was not changed, my helplessness was not done
away; yet at least I had washed my causes of sorrow in a flood of
heart drops, and cleansed them so somehow from any personal stain.
Rather I was perfectly exhausted. The women put me to bed, as soon as
I would let them; and Margaret whispered an earnest "Do, don't, Miss
Daisy, don't say nothin' about the prayer meetin'!" I shook my head; I
knew better than to say anything about it.

All the better not to betray them, and myself, I shut my eyes, and
tried to let my face grow quiet. I had succeeded, I believe, before my
Aunt Gary and Miss Pinshon came in. The two stood looking at me; my
aunt in some consternation, my governess reserving any expression of
what she thought. I fancied she did not trust my honesty. Another time
I might have made an effort to right myself in her opinion; but I was
past that a