"Forgive the letter," he whispered with beseeching eyes and voice, and hands upraised.
"I saw the distress of your soul," was the whispered answer, for it could not be spoken aloud. "And there was nothing to forgive," she added. She had laid her face against his again. "And it was quite true, Rafael," she murmured.
She must have passed through terrible days and nights here, he thought, before she could say that.
"Mother, mother! what a fearful time!"
Her little hand sought his: it was cold; it lay in his like an egg in a deserted nest. He warmed it and took the other as well.
"Was not the illumination splendid?" she said. And now her voice was like a child's.
He moved the screen which obstructed the light: he must see her better. He thought, when he saw the look of happiness in her face, if life looks so beautiful to her still, we shall have a long time together.
"If you had told me all that about Absalom, the picture which you made when you were told the story of David, Rafael; if you had only told me that before!" She paused, and her lips quivered.
"How could I tell it to you, mother, when I did not understand it myself?"
"The illumination—that must signify that I, too, understand. It ought to light you forward; do you not think so?"