Tom Watterly's horse was the pride of his heart.  It was a bobtailed, rawboned animal, but, as Tom complacently remarked to Alida, "He can pass about anything on the road"--a boast that he let no chance escape of verifying.  It was a terrible ordeal to the poor woman to go dashing through the streets in an open wagon, feeling that every eye was upon her.  With head bowed down, she employed her failing strength in holding herself from falling out, yet almost wishing that she might be dashed against some object that would end her wretched life.  It finally occurred to Tom that the woman at his side might not, after her recent experience, share in his enthusiasm, and he pulled up remarking, with a rough effort at sympathy, "It's a cussed shame you've been treated so, and as soon as you're ready, I'll help you get even with the scamp."

"I'm not well, sir," said Alida humbly. "I only ask for a quiet place where I can rest till strong enough to do some kind of work."

"Well, well," said Tom kindly, "don't lose heart.  We'll do the best by you we can.  That aint saying very much, though, for we're full and running over."

He soon drew rein at the poorhouse door and sprang out. "I--I--feel strange," Alida gasped.

Tom caught the fainting woman in his arms and shouted, "Here, Bill, Joe!  You lazy loons, where are you?"

Three or four half wrecks of men shuffled to his assistance, and together they bore the unconscious woman to the room which was used as a sort of hospital.  Some old crones gathered around with such restoratives as they had at command.  Gradually the stricken woman revived, but as the whole miserable truth came back, she turned her face to the wall with a sinking of heart akin to despair.  At last, from sheer exhaustion, feverish sleep ensued, from which she often started with moans and low cries.  One impression haunted her--she was falling, ever falling into a dark, bottomless abyss.

Hours passed in the same partial stupor, filled with phantoms and horrible dreams.  Toward evening, she aroused herself mechanically to take the broth Mrs. Watterly ordered her to swallow, then relapsed into the same lethargy.  Late in the night, she became conscious that someone was kneeling at her bedside and fondling her.  She started up with a slight cry.

"Don't be afraid; it's only me, dear," said a quavering voice.

In the dim rays of a night lamp, Alida saw an old woman with gray hair falling about her face and on her night robe.  At first, in her confused, feverish impressions, the poor waif was dumb with superstitious awe, and trembled between joy and fear.  Could her mother have come to comfort her in her sore extremity?

"Put yer head on me ould withered breast," said the apparition, "an' ye'll know a mither's heart niver changes.  I"ve been a-lookin' for ye and expectin' ye these long, weary years, They said ye wouldn't come back--that I'd niver find ye ag'in; but I knowed I wud, and here ye are in me arms, me darlint.  Don't draw away from yer ould mither.  Don't ye be afeard or 'shamed loike.  No matter what ye've done or where ye've been or who ye've been with, a mither's heart welcomes ye back jist the same as when yes were a babby an' slept on me breast.  A mither's heart ud quench the fires o' hell.  I'd go inter the burnin' flames o' the pit an' bear ye out in me arms.  So niver fear.  Now that I've found ye, ye're safe.  Ye'll not run away from me ag'in.  I'll hould ye--I'll hould ye back," and the poor creature clasped Alida with such conclusive energy that she screamed from pain and terror.

"Ye shall not get away from me, ye shall not go back to evil ways.  Whist, whist!  Be aisy and let me plead wid ye.  Think how many long, weary years I've looked for ye and waited for ye.  Niver have I slept night or day in me watchin'.  Ye may be so stained an' lost an' ruined that the whole wourld will scorn ye, yet not yer mither, not yer ould mither.  Oh, Nora, Nora, why did ye rin away from me?  Wasn't I koind?  No, no; ye cannot lave me ag'in," and she threw herself on Alida, whose disordered mind was tortured by what she heard.  Whether or not it was a more terrible dream than had yet oppressed her, she scarcely knew, but in the excess of her nervous horror she sent out a cry that echoed in every part of the large building.  Two old women rushed in and dragged Alida's persecutor screaming away.

"That's allus the way o' it," she shrieked. "As soon as I find me Nora they snatches me and carries me off, and I have to begin me watchin' and waitin' and lookin' ag'in."

Alida continued sobbing and trembling violently.  One of the awakened patients sought to assure her by saying, "Don't mind it so, miss.  It's only old crazy Kate.  Her daughter ran away from her years and years ago--how many no one knows--and when a young woman's brought here she thinks it's her lost Nora.  They oughtn't 'a' let her get out, knowin' you was here."

For several days Alida's reason wavered.  The nervous shock of her sad experiences had been so great that it did not seem at all improbable that she, like the insane mother, might be haunted for the rest of her life by an overwhelming impression of something lost.  In her morbid, shaken mind she confounded the wrong she had received with guilt on her own part.  Eventually, she grew calmer and more sensible.  Although her conscience acquitted her of intentional evil, nothing could remove the deep-rooted conviction that she was shamed beyond hope of remedy.  For a time she was unable to rally from nervous prostration; meanwhile, her mind was preternaturally active, presenting every detail of the past until she was often ready to cry aloud in her despair.

Tom Watterly took an unusual interest in her case and exhorted the visiting physician to do his best for her.  She finally began to improve, and with the first return of strength sought to do something with her feeble hands.  The bread o............