"Foolish girl that you are!" she cried, springing to Bertha's neck; "let me finish what I have to say."
"Did you not tell me that he spoke of love?" replied the suffering creature.
"Yes; but I did not tell you whom he loves."
"Mary! Mary! have pity on my heart!"
"Bertha! dear Bertha!"
"Was it of me he spoke?"
Mary had not the strength to reply in words; she made a sign of acquiescence with her head.
Bertha breathed heavily, passed her hand several times over her burning forehead. The shock had been too violent to allow her to recover instantly her normal condition.
"Mary," she said, "what you have just told me seems so unlikely, so impossible, that you must swear it. Swear to me--" She hesitated.
"I will swear what you will, sister," said Mary, who was eager herself to put some insurmountable barrier between her heart and her love.