“You needn’t⁠ ⁠… tell me⁠ ⁠… that ⁠ ⁠… Dimity!” cried Mattie, in a strange, high-pitched tone; and then, snatching her hand away from Mrs. Otter, she suddenly burst out: “You can cover up her bed with all my new things⁠—you can all of you do it⁠ ⁠… yes, you can all of you do it!”

The girl thrust the back of her hand into her mouth, biting the skin. Her heavy face was distorted, her bosom was heaving. “Oh, I want my mother, I want my mother!” she wailed, clapping both hands over her face and swaying to and fro in her seat.

This unexpected reference to a woman dead so many years⁠—he had no notion even as to where Lorna Smith was buried⁠—gave Wolf a queer shock. Mrs. Otter rose hurriedly and threw her arms round Mattie’s swaying head, pressing it to her breast. “My child! My child!” she kept repeating, while Wolf prayed desperately that the girl wouldn’t thrust her away.