“We’ve coom, Giles,” began the farmer, in a voice broken by emotion.
“I know it; ye ha’ coom to upbraid me,” interrupted the prisoner. “Go on—I deserve it, maister. You, too, whom I ha’ most injured, be coom, too.”
“Not to upbraid ye,” observed Patty. “It is not likely we should pay ye a visit to do that.”
The felon condemned to death gave the speaker a smile of welcome, and, rising, presented his clumsy seat to her.
She hesitated for a moment, and then sat down.
The turnkey, with the instinctive delicacy of nature’s gentlemen, stood as far from them as he could. He would have left had it not been against the prison rules.
Duty compelled him to be present—not to obtrude.
There was a silence for several minutes; neither of them knew what to say. It was Patty who spoke first. She rose from her seat and drew back to the side of her parent, upon whose shoulder she placed one of her hands as if to support herself.
For, to say the truth, the poor girl was deeply moved, and trembled in every limb.
“We have come to you, Giles,” said Patty, in a low sweet musical voice, “to tell you how sorry we are that you should have brought yourself to this, and we hope that before—before you die—you will try and drive out all malice and hatred towards us from your heart, as we have driven all from ours.”