never too late to
amend,' said Harriet. 'You are penitent?'

'No,' she answered. 'I am not! I can't be. I am no such thing. Why
should I be penitent, and all the world go free? They talk to me of my
penitence. Who's penitent for the wrongs that have been done to me?'

She rose up, bound her handkerchief about her head, and turned to move
away.

'Where are you going?' said Harriet.

'Yonder,' she answered, pointing with her hand. 'To London.'

'Have you any home to go to?'

'I think I have a mother. She's as much a mother, as her dwelling is a
home,' she answered with a bitter laugh.

'Take this,' cried Harriet, putting money in her hand. 'Try to do well.
It is very little, but for one day it may keep you from harm.'

'Are you married?' said the other, faintly, as she took it.

'No. I live here with my brother. We have not much to spare, or I would
give you more.'

'Will you let me kiss you?'

Seeing no scorn or repugnance in her face, the object of her charity
bent over her as she asked the question, and pressed her lips against
her cheek. Once more she caught her arm, and covered her eyes with it;
and then was gone.

Gone into the deepening night, and howling wind, and pelting rain;
urging her way on towards the mist-enshrouded city where the blurred
lights gleamed; and with her black hair, and disordered head-gear,
fluttering round her reckless face.

CHAPTER 34. Another Mother and Daughter

In an ugly and dark room, an old woman, ugly and dark too, sat listening
to the wind and rain, and crouching over a meagre fire. More constant
to the last-named occupation than the first, she never changed her
attitude, unless, when any stray drops of rain fell hissing on the
smouldering embers, to raise her head with an awakened attention to
the whistling and pattering outside, and gradually to let it fall again
lower and lower and lower as she sunk into a brooding state of thought,
in which the noises of the night were as indistinctly regarded as is
the monotonous rolling of a sea by one who sits in contemplation on its
shore.

There was no light in the room save that which the fire afforded.
Glaring sullenly from time to time like the eye of a fierce beast half
asleep, it revealed no objects that needed to be jealous of a better
display. A heap of rags, a heap of bones, a wretched bed, two or three
mutilated chairs or stools, the black walls and blacker ceiling, were
all its winking brightness shone up