"Dear Rebecca," said I, comforting her as I would a sister, "dear child, run home. Forget not little Hortense in thy prayers."
May the angel of forgiveness spread a broader mantle across our blunders than our sins, but could I have said worse?
"I have cooked dainties with my own hands. I have sent her cakes every day," sobbed Rebecca.
"Go home now, Rebecca," I begged.
But she stood silent.
"Rebecca—what is it?"
"You have not been to see me for a year, Ramsay."
I could scarce believe my ears.
"My father is away to-night. Will you not come?"
"But, Rebecca——"