Up there
somewhere, she supposed, the God whom Mr. Miles had invoked was waiting
for Mary Hyatt to appear. What a long flight it was! And what would she
have to say when she reached Him?
Charity's bewildered brain laboured with the attempt to picture her
mother's past, and to relate it in any way to the designs of a just but
merciful God; but it was impossible to imagine any link between them.
She herself felt as remote from the poor creature she had seen lowered
into her hastily dug grave as if the height of the heavens divided them.
She had seen poverty and misfortune in her life; but in a community
where poor thrifty Mrs. Hawes and the industrious Ally represented the
nearest approach to destitution there was nothing to suggest the savage
misery of the Mountain farmers.
As she lay there, half-stunned by her tragic initiation, Charity vainly
tried to think herself into the life about her. But she could not even
make out what relationship these people bore to each other, or to her
dead mother; they seemed to be herded together in a sort of passive
promiscuity in which their common misery was the strongest link.
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