In all these weeks there was never a reference to Rosalie's past.
"That page is turned, Rosalie," Margaret had told her one day when she made some depreciating reference to herself. "Let us never speak of it again." She said it with a gentle firmness that was final, and from that hour Rosalie Lesseur looked at her with worshipful eyes. The creature comforts with which she was surrounded, the material kindness which had been showered upon her, the blessedness of again having her child in her arms,—all these were enough to awaken deepest gratitude. But what could be said of a magnanimity, a Christ-like compassion which blotted out her transgressions and loved her freely? It is related of the great-hearted nurse of the Crimea that the sick soldiers turned to kiss her shadow as it passed. Rosalie could have fallen at Margaret's feet and kissed the hem of her garment, but that she felt her unworthiness.
One afternoon they were sitting in her room, Mrs. Pennybacker and Margaret doing the talking and the sick girl listening. She never talked much herself, but she liked to hear them. She was feeling unusually bright that day, and looked actually happy, for the conversation was about Philip and Louis and the rapidly approaching Christmas. It almost seemed that God's peace was settling upon her face.
"We will have a little Christmas-tree for Louis in here," Margaret was saying. Just then a servant appeared at the door with a card.
"A lady to see Mrs. De Jarnette."
Margaret looked at the card.
"'Mrs. Mary S. Belden.' What in the world does she want, I wonder. You are sure she asked for me?"
"Yes, madam, she distinctly said Mrs. De Jarnette."
"Tell her I will be down at once."
"Who is Mrs. Mary S. Belden?" asked Mrs. Pennybacker.