"My God! my God!" she murmured. "Have I not suffered enough?"
These words recalled him to himself. He begged her to have courage, to be strong; there was no new suffering in store for her, he said; what he had to relate would bring joy into her life. He gave her wine, and when she had recovered he proceeded with his story, and gradually and tenderly revealed to her the truth. As he proceeded her face shone with incredulous joy, her heart beat tumultuously with the prospect of this unexpected happiness; and when his story was finished, and he sat before her with bowed head, there was a long, long silence in the room. He dared utter no further words; in silent dread he waited for his condemnation.
He felt a hand upon his knee, and looking down, he saw her kneeling at his feet. She was transfigured; the long pent up love of a mother made her young again; she took his hand, and kissed it again and again, bedewing it with happy tears. He gazed at her in wonder. He had expected revilings and she was all tenderness.
"Is it true?" she murmured. "Oh, is it true?"
"It is the solemn truth," he answered.
"And my child lives?"
"She lives."
"God in heaven bless you! She lives--my daughter lives!"
"And you do not blame me--you do not reproach me?"
"I shall bless you to my dying day! Oh, my heart, my heart! It will burst with happiness."