XVII

           CHARITYlayontheflooronamattress,asherdeadmother’sbodyhadlain.Theroominwhichshelaywascoldanddarkandlow-ceilinged,andevenpoorerandbarerthanthesceneofMaryHyatt’searthlypilgrimage.OntheothersideofthefirelessstoveLiffHyatt’smothersleptonablanket,withtwochildren—hergrandchildren,shesaid—rolledupagainstherlikesleepingpuppies.Theyhadtheirthinclothesspreadoverthem,havinggiventheonlyotherblankettotheirguest.

           ThroughthesmallsquareofglassintheoppositewallCharitysawadeepfunnelofsky,soblack,soremote,sopalpitatingwithfrostystarsthatherverysoulseemedtobesuckedintoit.Uptheresomewhere,shesupposed,theGodwhomMr.MileshadinvokedwaswaitingforMaryHyatttoappear.Whatalongflightitwas!AndwhatwouldshehavetosaywhenshereachedHim?

           Charity’sbewilderedbrainlabouredwiththeattempttopicturehermother’spast,andtorelateitinanywaytothedesignsofajustbutmercifulGod;butitwasimpossibletoimagineanylinkbetweenthem.Sheherselffeltasremotefromthepoorcreatureshehadseenloweredintoherhastilyduggraveasiftheheightoftheheavensdividedthem.Shehadseenpovertyandmisfortuneinherlife;butinacommunitywherepoorthriftyMrs.HawesandtheindustriousAllyrepresentedthenearestapproachtodestitutiontherewasnothingtosuggestthesavagemiseryoftheMountainfarmers.

           Asshelaythere,half-stunnedbyhertragicinitiation,Charityvainlytriedtothinkherselfintothelifeabouther.