She ceased. Rosamond sat waiting to hear something more; but nothing came. She looked up; she was alone.
Alone once more! Always being left alone, because she would not yield to what was right! Oh, how safe she had felt under the wise woman’s cloak! She had indeed been good to her, and she had in return behaved like one of the hyenas of the awful wood! What a wonderful house it was she lived in! And again all her own story came up into her brain from her repentant heart.
“Why didn’t she take me with her?” she said. “I would have gone gladly.” And she wept. But her own conscience told her that, in the very middle of her shame and desire to be good, she had returned no answer to the words of the wise woman; she had sat like a tree-stump, and done nothing. She tried to say there was nothing to be done; but she knew at once that she could have told the wise woman she had been very wicked, and asked her to take her with her. Now there was nothing to be done.
“Nothing to be done!” said her conscience. “Cannot you rise, and walk down the hill, and through the wood?”
“But the wild beasts!”
“There it is! You don’t believe the wise woman yet! Did she not tell you the beasts would not touch you?”
“But they are so horrid!”
“Yes, they are; but it would be far better to be eaten up alive by them than live on—such a worthless creature as you are. Why, you’re not fit to be thought about by any but bad ugly creatures.”
This was how herself talked to her.