"Nothing, thank you," she said. Then to my surprise she reached up her hand, took mine in hers, and pressed it feebly. I could not understand her quick transition from bitter contempt to friendly warmth. Evidently something in my words had startled her and had changed her viewpoint. But I put speculation aside until some more opportune time. The imperative thing for me was to minister to her needs, mentally and physically.
"How do you feel now?" I asked.
"Much better, thank you," she replied. Then in a tone I had never heard from her lips before: "Come here, my child."
I could hardly credit my own ears. Surely those gentle words, that soft tone, could not belong to my husband's mother, who, in the short time she had been an inmate of our home, had lost no opportunity to show her dislike for me, and her resentment that her son had married me.
But I obeyed her and came to her side. She put up her hand and took mine, and I saw her proud old face work with emotion.
"I was unjust to you a few moments ago, Margaret," she said, "and I want to beg your pardon."
If she had not been old, in feeble health and my husband's mother, I would have considered the words scant reparation for the contemptuous phrases with which she had scourged my spirit a few moments before.
But I was sane enough to know that the simple "I beg your pardon" from the lips of the elder Mrs. Graham was equivalent to a whole torrent of apologies from any ordinary person. I knew my mother-in-law's type of mind. To admit she was wrong, to ask for one's forgiveness, was to her a most bitter thing.
So I put aside from me every other feeling but consideration of the proud old woman holding my hand, and said gently:
"I can assure you that I cherish no resentment. Let us not speak of it again."