Berry, and it was not until he had gone that she spoke out.
"Unfort'nate! He's going to bring me an unfort'nate female! Oh! not
from my babe can I bear that! Never will I have her here! I see it.
It's that bold-faced woman he's got mixed up in, and she've been and made
the young man think he'll go for to reform her. It's one o' their arts--
that is; and he's too innocent a young man to mean anythin' else. But I
ain't a house of Magdalens no! and sooner than have her here I'd have the
roof fall over me, I would."

She sat down to eat her supper on the sublime resolve.

In love, Mrs. Berry's charity was all on the side of the law, and this is
the case with many of her sisters. The Pilgrim sneers at them for it,
and would have us credit that it is their admirable instinct which, at
the expense of every virtue save one, preserves the artificial barrier
simply to impose upon us. Men, I presume, are hardly fair judges, and
should stand aside and mark.

Early next day Mrs. Berry bundled off to Richard's hotel to let him know
her determination. She did not find him there. Returning homeward
through the park, she beheld him on horseback riding by the side of the
identical lady.

The sight of this public exposure shocked her more than the secret walk
under the trees... "You don't look near your reform yet," Mrs. Berry
apostrophized her. "You don't look to me one that'd come the Fair
Penitent till you've left off bein' fair--if then you do, which some of
ye don't. Laugh away and show yet airs! Spite o' your hat and feather,
and your ridin' habit, you're a Belle Donna." Setting her down again
absolutely for such, whatever it might signify, Mrs. Berry had a virtuous