"I'll see what I can do in that way, but if they ride, they'll be getting into mischief."
"I don't think so. It will keep them out of mischief. I wish you were a little fonder of your small daughters."
He contracted his brows.
"They're too like their mother," he said shortly.
"That isn't their fault, poor mites! They're conscious of your indifference to them, which is bad for you, and bad for them. I don't want to ask you about the past, but doesn't time make us more tender with the erring? If you could have gentler thoughts—"
He interrupted her.
"Do you think I can ever forget," he said in a tone of concentrated bitterness, "that it is owing to her failure as wife and mother that my only son is as he is. He might have been a strong, sturdy youngster, in full health and strength of body, instead of which he is a suffering, mutilated cripple. Whilst I have him before my eyes, do you think I can ever have gentle thoughts of his mother?"
Anstice had never realized how much he felt his boy's deformity. She said very gently:
"Poor darling Ruffie, it seems a sorry thing that his beautiful little presence should be the means of keeping up hatred and bitterness in your heart. Whatever his body may be, God in His mercy has given him great gifts of soul. Not only his charming, loving little personality which makes us all adore him, but in mental capacity and artistic genius. I believe he will do wonders with his pencil and paints if he lives to grow up. You have great reason to be proud of your boy. And his sweetness and cheery patience set us all an example of endurance and fortitude."
Justin did not speak. He was gazing into the fire before him. Then he looked across at his wife.