Mr. Standish hesitated; under the child's innocent gaze he found it difficult to speak. He told her in simple words some of the story Mrs. Browne had related. It was a mercy Meg evinced no curiosity concerning her father. Mr. Standish dwelt upon the beauty, the youth, the suffering of the mother; he spoke of the love she had lavished in anticipation upon the babe she was never to see.
As he spoke, the thought of that early and lonely death thrust itself before him with a new and piteous force. The thought of the forsaken child moved him, and his voice faltered.
Meg was by his side in a moment; her hand touched his. "You asked me in your letter to forgive you," she whispered. "I forgive you."
He took the little hand. "You must forget also, Meg, that I said your mother had left you poor and uncared for."
"But she did. She left me poor, and with strangers; that's what you said," replied Meg, with a return of the old fierceness, quoting his words.
"She died," he answered with emphasis, bending forward. "Listen, Meg," he continued, as the child remained apparently unsoftened, "will you believe me, even if you do not understand me—will you believe me?"
For a moment Meg remained dogged and silent, then, as she met his troubled glance, the doubt passed from hers, the confiding light came back.
"I believe you; I believe you very much," she said.
"Then, when you think of her, Meg, think that some one had done her great injury—had made her suffer, more than you can know. That is why she came here and died. She left you poor because everything had been taken from her."